Believing When it Doesn't Make Sense

...believing when it doesnt make sense...-Francis Chan Erasing Hell p. 107
   
                Faith is believing when it doesn’t make sense. When a wonderful daddy suddenly dies leaving two precious teenagers behind. When I see a hundred children go without food—eating paper and crayon shavings in an attempt to ease their pangs. When a young—married less than two weeks—man dies in a work accident. When a godly 24 year old succumbs to cancer. It aches. It hurts to the core and stirs up fears of—if them, why not me? Or, why am I living this abundant life when those precious babies are starving? Where is the assurance when this world is crumbling, crying, cancer-ridden? When complacence and consumer-driven selfishness engulf a culture too gluttonous to look up from their rotting piles of wealth-based identities to see the plight of their fellow man? When we almost believe we are entitled while comforting ourselves and quieting guilt with the audacious thought that the poor somehow deserve or have earned it.

                Where is compassion? Courage? Victory? Where does faith find its footing in a world of contradictions and disparities? Where do I start with removing my own planks when I see the collective effects of a culture shattered by splintered truths?

                Faith is believing when it doesn’t make sense. Our western mindset wants an easy fix—from diet pills to every magazine littered with “10 steps to a sure result”. We want clear answers to complex problems. We want a microwaveable solution to a Thanksgiving feast amount of work. But faith calls us to patience, to humility, to admitting we are finite and broken. We are infantile in our desires and patience. Faith quiets our questions by reminding us of the form of our salvation—suffering. It reminds us that we are part of the problem and that our eyes are tainted by sin. Faith is without foundation if we abandon it when it doesn’t offer a quick fix, an instant gratification. Faith reminds us the cross of suffering leads to salvation—not a pain-free and easy answer. I believe when the world doesn’t make sense because faith is the only thing that does.

A New Way of Seeing Things

“One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” – Henry Miller 

                One thing I have been learning the past year is summed up by this quote. As I look back over my journey to Kenya, I can see how it wasn’t so much about getting me to the specific country—although I know I was supposed to meet, learn from, and teach the Kenyans and fellow missionaries I met—as it was to teach me. Every step of the journey, from applying to SIM at the prompting of my missionary friends, to the plane bringing me back to Seattle was intentional. The preparation for the trip—the application, support letter writing, waiting, packing, all of it taught me patience, perseverance, and stepping out in faith.

                Each part was pivotal for the next stage and interwoven purposefully. I needed to persevere in the many “to-do” lists for Kenya-medical, support raising, etc. because it helped me to remember that each day is pivotal and important for the fulfillment of dreams…to quote a cheesy country song “it’s one day closer to you”. Not only that, but I can look in hindsight at how God prepared me from a young age for my time in Kenya-wiring me to love travel (even as a baby) and even taking Spanish all those years which was an immense aide in my acquisition of Kikuyu, a tribal language of Kenya. In a different way, the week Jennie and I spent up country was such an encouragement for the rest of my time—reminding me how Jesus literally is my next breath, my sustainer, guide, and friend.

                We can live in the moment—whether dreaming or living out our dreams—knowing that each minute is crucial to the plan God has for our lives. It will stretch us, teach us, encourage us, and will ultimately be used for good. Even before I left so many people, seasoned missionaries and people who have never left their home state, told me that this trip was going to change me. But just like getting stared at up country, you can’t really anticipate that and prepare for it. Even as I am starting to glean new things from my time in Kenya, I am surprised at what I see.

                I see that I am changing in hard but necessary ways and I know that this will continue for a lifetime. Bear with me as I go off the top of my head and spew what has been stewing for a month or so and is just now ready to be poured out. I am changed. I now think in a “world clock format” automatically thinking “switch am to pm minus 2 hours” for what time it is in Kenya and then praying for my friends and the children I know there. I also have a newfound empathy for immigrants, orphans, and widows around me. I also think twice about buying new clothes or other “non-essentials” and often give thanks for all the material things I have. Similarly, I find it hard to look through Sunday ads and find commercials to be annoying and so superfluous.  Oddly enough, I slightly feel like I did after graduating from Trinity Western—realizing how much I loved being surrounded by/living with like-minded friends who I was able to easily do life with. Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends and family here…but there’s a unique bond built by the shared experiences on a mission field. I am so thankful for social media which allows me to keep in touch with the friends I made. Anyway, this is just a glimpse of my recent thoughts and struggles.

One month out- scattered musings

 So it has been one month since my feet hit the northwest soil after the fulfillment of a life-long dream. Where am I at? Where do I go? How have I changed?

                These questions, their answers, and a million other thoughts flood my mind daily.

Where am I at? Well, I finally feel like the dust has settled as far as the crazy first three weeks are concerned—the surreal-ness about being back in the USA and all the mixed thoughts, surprises at changes, and the odd habits that don’t seem to fit here anymore…I am angry and joyful, grieving the loss of my friend, the sudden loss of my cousin and subsequent whirlwind trip to Minnesota (including a near-death my mother fell asleep at the wheel incident on the drive home), starting back at work, and plugging back in to my church family. I am learning it is okay to be where I am—to only be working part time and to know I need that—I need the freedom to process, to reconnect, to reconcile my corner of the world with the bigger picture I lived in for 3 mere months. I am pensive, nostalgic, weepy and joyful—usually in a span of 15 minutes. I am incredibly blessed to have supportive and understanding friends who let me talk, cry, and tie in my experience to daily life here. I am learning to have grace with myself knowing that transition is a process and I will be gleaning lessons from this experience for a lifetime. To anyone who has let me tell a story for the hundredth time, let me show them pictures and videos, thank you. Thank you for being a part of my Kenyan journey.

                Where do I go? I have learned to focus more on the day to day. Today I go to work, I read, I listen, I reconnect. I step into my days and weeks knowing that I can only take one day at a time and must see it as a gift. I go into my church family and share the story of the children in Kibera with the children I am privileged to teach here—ones with huge hearts who want to know the kids by name and want to send their toys to them. The reality of death has been pummeling me lately and it’s been a blender. I am grieved by the family, friends and acquaintances (a guy who went to my university) I’ve lost, hurt for their close loved ones, and can’t help but think of the precious kids I know by name who live in the largest slum in east Africa and face the reality of death daily. It has been a unique struggle because it really hasn’t been a “shaking my fists at Jesus” time—but more of a grasping of the reality of sin and death and hurt in this world which is humbly leading me TO Him—the only constant, the only hope that keeps its promise. So, I go to the cross, I go to the Bible, I go to the One who never leaves me or forsakes me. I go out into my day with a somber purpose—knowing that this life is not a guarantee. I go out with hope—that I can reconnect, can adjust, can keep the memories and friendships I made in Kenya. I go out intentionally—telling the stories of the children; and with a new-found gratitude for the life I didn’t ask for nor do I deserve. I go out in prayer—trusting that my time in Seattle is purposeful and that each day here matters just as much as everyone I spent in Kenya.

                How have I changed? That is difficult to grasp—and I know it will continue to change as I process and adjust…but what exactly am I adjusting to? I know I won’t adjust back to “what I was” and that’s exactly how it should be. I never want to take the *little* things for granted—clean running water, trustworthy electricity, a full fridge, an education, and health, to name a few. I don’t want to jump back into the sea of a consumerism and materialistically defined sense of security, status, and joy. I know I cannot throw off the culture I was born into—and in some ways will have to accept this reality around me. But I never want to forget to be grateful for the abundant blessings here—even if that means awkwardly tearing up as I munch on fries with friends after church—grieving for the kids I know who may not have eaten today. I have changed in that I am more aware of how time-focused western culture is. I am changed because I am blown away by how constant Jesus is. I have changed in so many ways—many I know I cannot yet articulate. I am changed and know that this one month is just the beginning.

This is my Beautiful Life

                As I read another witty essay by the late Norah Ephron, I found myself wishing I wrote like her—had the early-adult stories sown in candid sprouts for posterity. The instantaneous thought that followed—you can and you do—was freeing, and so I wrote—

                I do have a beautifully imperfect life. My ears don’t work half as well as yours—literally. I am the size of an average fifth-grader causing many unseen “cat reaches for the toaster and falls off the counter” scenes. I stay up too late because I write and create best at 2 am—and regret it almost every morning but that doesn’t keep me from rationalizing again at 1:30 am. At any given moment I am in the middle of three to five books—many I am re-reading. Frequently I am reminded of book and movie quotes as well as jeopardy trivia—even describing this quirk with a quote from You’ve Got Mail—“so much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book once, but shouldn’t it be the other way around?” I am guilty of blurting out of context comments that only have coherency in the context of my cranium. I adore alliterations, sunsets, puns, and cinnamon.

                I am in love—with Jesus, everything Autumn, used book stores, notes of encouragement, travelling, children from the Kibera slum, and making a child smile. I love creating with bright colors and photography but, like my writing—they occur in frantic bursts of inspiration rather than disciplined practice. Every so often I have a love affair with tea but I always reconcile with coffee. I have a disdain for cheese graters and washing strainers. If it’s witty I’ll love it but if its trashy and full of innuendos your grandma wouldn’t understand I probably won’t watch it. I change my pens based on my mood and go through journals like some women go through a can of hairspray. If I have socks on and there’s a wood/linoleum floor 97% of the time I will enter a room in Jerry-Macguire-esque slide. I am slightly embarrassed to be writing so much about myself—akin to an early-prepubescent boy caught flexing by his mother. But I am unapologetic.

                I am free because I am loved. I am cherished and confident because I am chosen. I am living my one beautifully imperfect life. So, future posterity—and present reader—here’s my essay, my excerpt, my life.

Be Still in the Process

Well autumn weather has finally hit Seattle. Cue a cozy, pajama wearing, vanilla chai filled, rainy day. As I laid in bed this morning, my thoughts volleyed between “it is okay to be where you’re at today” to “planning” my day of rest—yes, scheduling the “relaxing” things. It was in the midst of these thoughts, the bubbles of sadness of missing Kenya, “my kids”, and the waves of missing my cousin and friend that I was reminded that “The Lord will fight for you, you need only be still” (Ex 14:14). My heavenly daddy has this in his hands, I don’t have to figure it out, sort out my thoughts, or “get over these things” because He is with me,  quiets me by his love (Zephaniah 3:17). I can take each hour and emotion that comes today and have peace because when I am weak He is strong.

                I can admit that in a way I can identify with C.S. Lewis’ broken ramblings of grief. Presently, his remarks that “and, grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen” as well as his admonition that “there is spread over everything a vague sense of wrongness, of something amiss. Like those dreams where nothing terrible occurs—nothing that would sound even remarkable if you told it at breakfast-time—but the atmosphere, the taste, of the whole thing is deadly” (A Grief Observed).

                That is exactly how this transition time has felt. Things at home are “the same” but I’m not—and that’s right where things need to be. It doesn’t mean that this time is easy, or enjoyable. It doesn’t mean that I don’t surprise myself with my thoughts about materialism, poverty, even grief. But overreaching I know this is a season. It will always have an effect on me—to degrees I will always miss the time I spent in and the people I met in Kenya, my cousin, my friend, and the beautiful kids I was privileged to know. And that’s okay.

                It’s okay to be exhausted, to be sad, to be indecisive because of all I’m processing. It’s okay to need time. Today I will rest in the fact that I am where I am, right now, for a reason. I don’t have to, nor will I really ever “get over” these things. They will be woven into my life, settled in my heart, and utilized for my good in time. Today I will listen to the rain, tuck a cozy blanket around me, pour another cup of chai, and let it be.

Autumn in America—difficult beginnings

                I have been horrible about writing this past week. It’s mostly been because I have no idea where to start.

 I can’t believe I’ve been home, back in Seattle, for 12 days. It has been a rollercoaster. Some hours have felt like the beginning of the ride—I’m getting strapped in, ready for a new adventure back the States, and especially when reunited with family and friends, while others—especially the morning hours, are like the drop after a hill—terrifying and causing your stomach to leap into your throat because of the unfamiliar. Then there’s the crazy circles, when you don’t know what to feel or think—you just have to ride them out. This week has been just like that.

 

I have been blessed to have a warm welcome here—including at surprise 25^th/welcome home party from my church small group. But these 12 days have not been easy. I didn’t realize how much I had changed—how materialism was going to affect me—with disgust and contempt for the “meccas” shopping malls are. I also didn’t realize how much I would miss Kenya…miss my “Kenya family” as well as the precious kids I got used to seeing 5 days a week. I even miss the 5ish miles of daily walking. 

Don’t get me wrong—I know I am supposed to be here…and there have been many joys--a trip to portland, happy hour conversations, hugs from people I missed while in Kenya, and sunny Seattle days. Autumn is hands down my favorite season—the crisp air, rainbow of leaves, and cozy clothes and food—it’s just been crazy to try and process so many things—Kibera, things that have changed here,  North American materialism, the death of my friend, and, most recently, the shocking death of my cousin on Sunday. It is hard to not feel overwhelmed, like I can’t catch up.

 

But I am so blessed. I have a wonderful circle of friends here who have helped me process, let me talk, and some have articulated their own experiences of the “reverse culture shock” entering back into life in North America brings. Several people have reminded the “future oriented” me to take it one day at a time, to start right where I’m at (overwhelmed, sad, and “swimming”), and to trust that my Heavenly daddy doesn’t expect me to figure this out, to sort everything out on my own. He walks with me (and talks with me, and tells me I am his own). As I inhale the crisp air, turn towards the sun, and intentionally stomp on crunchy leaves, I know that I will work through this. I will learn what he prompts and be quieted by his love (Zephaniah 3:17). I can take this transition time one day, one hour at a time.