Always answered, always full

The last couple of weeks have been rough. It feels like every aspect of my life has something major going on; whether it's good or bad, it's still busy.

I was lying in bed last night. My body was half-asleep but my brain was raging, which seems to be my permanent state of being lately. I was praying - praying for provision, praying for a break, praying for rest and peace, praying for my burdens to be lifted. My heartbeats were coming fast, my mind was spinning like a hurricane. I was crunching numbers, reciting Spanish verb tenses, listing out my TLD, thinking of how I can fix tomorrow. Everything within my body said "Am I to fight or to flee?" I feel like I'm in high school again, except I'm no longer a slave to the IB program but to all the other things life demands of me.

And that is when God did what He does - He let me know that He's got it covered.

"Dani, I have provided for you time and time again. What makes you think that this will be any different? Do you not realize that I own the whole universe and everything that is within it?"

I still don't know how I will pay for anything.

Mexico.

Tuition.

Lesotho.

Oxford.

I still don't know where the Lord wants me to spend my summer months.

Florida.

California.

Mexico.

Honduras.

Costa Rica.

The community I live in has such a beautiful economy. It is one in which we rotate money around among the same people. We give when we aren't sure we can, we receive when our pride tell us we shouldn't. We're all struggling to pay the same bills yet we are paying them together. I know that every time I step out in faith and obedience by giving, the Lord blesses me again - yet it is still so hard to trust. Sometimes the blessing isn't on my schedule, sometimes it isn't in the ways I had wanted, sometimes it isn't even in the form of money - but it always comes. Bills always get paid.

I live in a community where blessings come in the form of envelops of money discretely hidden by a secret benefactor, wads of cash handed over on the sidewalk, emails to half-strangers starting with "The Lord told me," homemade dinner, mass texts asking for help, laundry dried by an unknown hall-mate, bake sales, mysterious increases on bank statements, late night calls for prayer.

The blessings are always answered.

These are the things Jesus died for.

He died for me to live this life of beauty and joy that I so often take for granted.

He died for me to live this life of love and giving that I so often fail to be a part of.

He died for me to live this life of calling and obedience that I so often am afraid to follow.

He died for me to live this life of trust and peace that I so often worry over.

He died for this life that is supposed to be so full of Him, so full of His goodness and grace.

What his mother taught him

I went to a women in church leadership training conference yesterday for work. Whenever a bunch of females get together somebody breaks out Proverbs 31 as if it were the only section of scripture that speaks to us. I'll admit I have verses 10 through 31 handwritten on pretty paper tacked onto my wall and I believe that every woman and girl needs to hear these words, but I was a bit irritated when the speaker asked us to turn in our bibles to this particular chapter.

Then she started reading from the chapter I had thought I knew, yet the words she was saying were so unfamiliar.

Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.

They were verses 8 and 9, directly before the section that we so often glean from in women's ministry. Why had nobody told me these verses? Why had I read through Proverbs, but never taken in the sayings of King Lemuel?

Because I'm narcissistic and my eyes jumped immediately to the character of a noble wife. Because when I read scripture, I need it to tell me good things about myself. Because I have been fed a lie both in my church and community that women are of lesser value, and I therefore jump at the sight of females getting a little recognition. Because I'm obsessed with weddings, children, and all things domestic.

Because being commanded to stick up for the least of these does not appear nearly as gratifying as hearing my Lord compare me to rubies.

The sayings of King Lemuel - an inspired utterance his mother taught him (verse 1).

These are the sayings his momma taught him, the lessons that come from a mother and wife of noble character. This is the fruit of a woman who works vigorously and provides for her family, one who "opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy" (verse 20), who is full of strength and dignity and joy. This is what happens when a woman raises her children in the fear of the Lord.

I've been praying for my unfound husband, unborn children, and (more recently) unmet in-laws for years. I've prayed for a strong marriage, for my kids to turn out alright, for me to not want to slit my mother-in-law's throat, but never had I thought to pray that I would be the kind of mother and wife that the Lord seeks.

Doing good

In 1989, Pope John Paul II made a trip to Peru.

The indigenous people responded with:

“We… decided to take advantage of Pope John Paul II’s visit to return to him his bible because in five centuries it has given us neither love, nor peace, nor justice. Please take your bible and give it to our oppressors: they are in greater moral need of its precepts than we are.”

Ouch. That cuts deep.

Christopher Columbus and the conquistadors came to the Caribbean in 1492. Ever since then, the white man has been playing in Latin America for three reasons: God, glory, and gold. Herds of missionaries came to preach the "good news", to offer salvation, to "rescue" a people caught up in bloody human sacrifices.

So where exactly did we go wrong?

Was it when we gave them smallpox?

Was it when we pillaged their villages?

Was it when we forced them into conscripted slavery?

Was it when we looked at them as a thing rather than a people?

I love Mexico. It's no secret. I go there for God, or at least I think I do. I'm not finding gold there; in fact, I'm losing gobs of money with all my travels south. I don't find a whole lot of glory - there's not much that's sexy or powerful about not bathing for a week. Yet sometimes I do get caught up in the pride of it all, in being able to say that I gave up my holiday breaks. Sometimes, starting a story with "So I was in Mexico last weekend and..." is an exciting thing to do - especially when all of my friends back home are eating mahi mahi sandwiches at McKenna's Place or lying in the sand on 27th Ave. Sometimes I start to think that I'm doing something right.

And that's when everything starts to go wrong.

This video has gone viral among my circle of friends over the last couple of weeks. It was made several years ago by a former APU student and takes a harsh yet true look at Mexico Outreach.

Several years ago, students were saying "there's something about the dirt." We're still saying that today.

We come home after a few days, hot, sunburned, tired, probably vomiting and running a fever. We have new profile pictures for our Facebook pages and adventure stories of getting lost, trying strange foods, and sleeping on packed earth. We tell stories of love, redemption, and the new people we've met yet can't remember the names of. We remember how close we felt to God when we were worshiping as a group for the fourth time in two days and think that it's Mexico that did it, not simply the fact that we are taking time for the Lord.

We come home brave, altruistic, and "holy". On Monday we crawl out of our warm beds, sip a latte, scramble to our air-conditioned class in our clean clothes, and go about our day with the occasional prayer for the country we claim to love.

We suck.

500 years after the conquest, we are still feeding them the bible with one hand while holding them down with the other. America cries "liberty, freedom, opportunity, (arguably) Christian" yet we fight over whether fathers should be allowed within our gates to feed their starving children. We go on mission trips as enablers, as spoiled WASPs looking for an exciting story.

I used to always think that when we work in the name of the Lord, it is good. Now I am not so sure. The conquistadors claimed to be working for God - but was what they did "good"? I think I go to Mexico for God - but the people in the video aren't so sure we're helpful.

I don't think all of what we do in Mexico is bad. I think we do a lot of good and that we're still in a process. It's hard to develop a ministry when the life cycle of your generation of workers is only 4 years; by the time our leaders are equipped and trained, they are ready to leave.

I am guilty of going to Mexico without prayer, of feeling like I have an agenda to meet rather than a God to obey. I am guilty of saying I love the people I forget the names of. I am guilty of telling stories of getting pulled over by Mexican police rather than the stories of what God is doing in my heart and in the lives of others. I am guilty of fearing that people will think I am crazy or one of "those" Christians if I tell them my God stories. I am guilty of looking at the Mexican people of something that needs rather than someone who is.

When we work in the name of the Lord, we are doing good. It's a good thing that God has told us what is good: to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly.

Micah 6:8

Those weeks

It's been one of those weeks.

The kind of week where allergies attack without mercy, mail piles up on my desk, midterms roar in fury, work demands extra attention, my room is piled with guests, events and meetings and interviews stack against each other, an abnormal glance sends me straight into judgement, friends are as overwhelmed as I, payments are due all too soon, and my body screams "please, stop neglecting me!"

We've all had one of those weeks.

But these weeks come few and far between and I know that they will soon end. The pollen will settle, the mail will be sorted. Midterms will end, deadlines and meetings will come and go. The guests will return home and my room will once again be lonely, leaving me longing for more squatters. Friends will come out of hiding as their lives slow down too. Work will slow for a brief season between Easter and VBS. Paychecks and fundraising money will come in at the last minute. High-strung emotions will simmer down into contentment and peace.

And maybe, just maybe one day my body will get a vegetable, a run, and a nap in.

Rejoice always, pray continually and give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. -- 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Awake

I lay my weary body down underneath the sheets. My muscles whine, but not with the accomplished sore feeling of exercise or hard manual labor. It's the ache of exhaustion and poor care; perhaps this is what it feels like to be old.

I lay in bed for a few moments calculating the exact number of minutes I would have it I fell asleep right now. Six hours becomes five. My body tells me how hard I have worked today but my mind chatter mocks me, reminding me of how much I have left to complete tomorrow.

I crawl out of my warm covers in a search for something to settle my head. Perhaps if I write down my TDL for tomorrow? No, that only shows me how much there is to do. Maybe I could read? No, my mind wanders away from the page too quickly. I could work on a sewing project? No, my eyes are too tired and my brain too foggy to operate machinery.

And then I remember the God I worship. The one who kept my aching muscles going all day. The one who cleared my overwhelmed thoughts as I panicked over deadlines. The one who stood beside me as I completed task after task. The one who is willing to do it all over again with me tomorrow. The one who values rest yet never tires.

"Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones. When you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake." -- Victor Hugo