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

Daytona 500 in California

I always hated race week and Bike Week.

It makes life an inconvenience.

There's no lazy Saturday trips to the mall.

No running errands. No visiting my friends from school who lived to the north.

Traffic is a nightmare - as it if isn't bad enough in a town where a third of the population is over the age of 65.

Sobriety checkpoints at the Pub wanting to check my provisional license after curfew.

Men with mullets and skullcaps. Chunky women in skin-tight chaps.

Halifax and Bert Fish's ERs overflowing with road rash and collision injuries.

The smell of beer and barbecue. The constant roar and clack of Harleys.

Rednecks, RV parks established on vacant lots, kiddie pools and Daisy Dukes.

Black shirts, tobacco smoke, Sin City making its way onto our otherwise calm island.

Now that I'm not in Florida, I kind of miss these weeks.

They made a rhythm in my life. Race week meant spring break was coming up. Bike Week fell on my birthday. The roar of motors and the smell of pumpkin spice lattes was how I knew Halloween was approaching. I remember being a small child and my parents doing some spring cleaning, the windows open and the Daytona 500 playing in the background. It always annoyed me, both the cleaning and the monotonous rumbling of the engines, but it is a very comforting thing to me now.

Now it's time to establish my own traditions, new rhythms, and continue to find comfort in the things that remind me of home.

Manzanas y Calles

If you've talked to me for more than two minutes, you know that I love Mexico. I love the dry dirt that makes me feel like I'm in the middle of the Dust Bowl. I love the helado callejeros that walk up and down the gravel streets selling ice cream (which I also really really love). I love the warm air in the sunshine and the coolness of the shade.

I love the children with dirty brown hands that hold my soft white hands and tell me that they love me; to them, it makes no difference that I am a foreigner, that I garble their language, that I make strange sounds they cannot understand when I speak to my friends. They just love. Their sweet mothers smile, serving me hot food and doing their best to impress their guests. Most of their fathers are not around, but when they are they smile and stay quietly in the background; perhaps they are unsure of us, perhaps they don't know what to say. Either way, they are gentle; the hands and faces of all of the adults hold the stories of years of hard labor.

Who am I, to be so blessed with their presence, their kindness?

Manzana Lift or Manzanita Sol. Liquid Crack.

Mexican apple soda aka the only soda I really

really like. I brought home multiple bottles.

Don't judge - it's real real good.

The next big, week-long trip is over spring break. My heart was set on team Rescate de Calles, translated as "rescue of the streets". Essentially, the team focuses on "street children"; kids who can't afford to go to school, foster babies, beggars, factory workers, victims of abuse in a system that fails to protect, little people far too young to be abandoned. They're the forgotten children of the streets of Mexico.

I applied for a leadership position. I was denied.

I was disappointed, but did my best to keep Jealous Janet away (I try to not let her come out to play too often). I talked to the leader of Rescate and essentially arranged for me to be on his team; I was excited, I was determined. Two days later, a sweet friend of mine told me she had crazy news for me that I must hear in person. We met outside on the lawn, but I already knew what she was about to tell me; God had placed me on her team. Now, don't get me wrong - I love her to pieces and I know she loves the Lord and the work He has assigned her to in Mexico.

But I want what I want when I want it.

The perfectionist in me knocked on the door of the closet I keep her locked up in. "Two denials in two weeks. What next? How silly of you to even think you could get a job in Latin America for the summer. What were you thinking? You don't ever understand what God is trying to tell you - you weren't meant to be on that team, or go to Mexico, or travel abroad anywhere else."

That was enough of that. She went back into her closet where she belongs.

I was left a bit disappointed and I simply could not figure it out, why I felt like I was supposed to lead that team, then be in that team - only to be denied. It seemed like such a great fit.

I don't have time to sulk around; the day is just too precious and too beautiful. I spent a few moments in prayer. Then it hit me.

I wanted to be on Rescate because it somewhat reminded me of my own life over the last few years. I connected with it, I empathized with them, I felt like it was almost my duty to protect the unprotected. But it occurred to me that my problem was perhaps that I am too emotionally involved. I'm not healed and therefore not able to heal others. This part of my life is still tender, still an easily opened wound. To be a member of this team at this time in my life would almost be a disservice.

So today I take joy in knowing that I have a God who protects, a God who heals, and a God who provides. I am praying that I not only work through my own junk so I can serve others, but that the Lord will use team Rescate de Calles in beautiful ways as He uses me in others.

Everything

The smog softly hangs low over the mountains. The ground is dry once again from yesterday's rain, bringing life to the blooming flowers and washing the pollen off of their petals. The breeze blows gently, giving the pollen from the landscape a free ride.

This is the only thing that threatens to ruin my day. With burning eyes, impromptu sneezing fits, and a stinging throat, I lie in the soft springy grass to enjoy the warm sunshine against the cool breeze.

I love everything about this land, about this place, about these people whom I live among.