Humbled, Always.

I have several blog posts appropriately named, "humbled."  Truth be told, I think the majority of them could be so labeled.  God continually challenges me by my lack of generosity or lack of faith, or lack, but in a good, kind way.  I need him, always.

I have had the privilege of participating in a monthly pastors' wive's meeting.  It is a sweet time of fellowship and learning more about the Word, what God calls us to as women, health issues, and more.  All of these dear women live in surrounding villages and it is a blessing to have them all come into town to gather together.

Two months ago, about halfway through the morning, the women with babies decided it was time for baths.  At 10:30 in the morning.  Decided, as in, "where is the hot water and basin?"   Ok, let me go grab those things.  I struggled.  That's how rich I am in generosity.  It's not easy to admit!  And I love these sweet little babies!

Last month I was ready, as God, in His great mercy, had prepared me to be a little more welcoming and kind and actually have the basin ready ahead of time, whether I think babies need a bath in the middle of the morning or not.  I was not reluctant, and proud of myself for it! (wow.)   I do find that it isn't the big cultural differences that get to me, but the little ones, usually when I wonder if I'm being taken advantage of.

I'm pretty sure Jesus didn't give a second thought to whether or not he was being taken advantage of, since "everywhere he went, they brought the sick out..."  Worrying about being taken advantage of is in stark contrast to true service.

Take two.

Last Sunday a vehicle was stuck after the service and Dave was busy working to get it unstuck.  We have been at the village church in the village we used to live in, so we know the people of that congregation well.  Most of the kids went home in another car, and I tried to get a very tired, unhappy Ben to sleep in my arms in our car.  He was screaming his head off--he just needs his bed.

A mama from church came to the car and said, "Oh Mama Hannah!  He's crying because he needs a bath!"

Well, that was not the first thing that had come to mind.  "Come with me to my house."  At that point, I was up for anything.  Lauren, Ben and I followed Mama Baraka through some little mud houses, past some sunflowers and into the little dirt clearing between her two mud rooms.  She pulled out a small wooden chair for me and filled a basin with plenty of water, then plopped Ben into it.

He grinned, pleased with this effort.   He splashed around, flinging his hands out with droplets of water onto the packed dirt: a small, chubby pope bestowing wild blessings from his sacred bath.

While he lingered, Mama Baraka brought a fresh bar of soap, retrieved a clean, folded kanga (material for a wrap) to dry him off, and then produced two kinds of baby body lotion for me to choose from.

I'm sure you can see where I'm headed with this.  Or where God was headed.

How humbling.  To receive such sweet, eager, wholehearted generosity from a mama who had to carry the water from the well herself, use her little money to buy soap and lotion...my heart was greatly instructed.  Jesus, forgive me.  I am so not like you.  I learn from your people in this place every day. I still have so much to learn about generosity.

 But God has chosen the things which the world regards as foolish, in order to put its wise men to shame; and God has chosen the things which the world regards as destitute of influence, in order to put its powerful things to shame...I Cor. 1:27

Mama Emma (short for Emmanuel, a boy who used to come play at our house) saw me and called to me to come visit her house, too, "We have been waiting for months for you to visit!"  We headed down the path: a humbled mama, a barefoot Lauren and a very clean and good-smelling Ben.  Offered a chair again, we greeted everyone and had a little chat about Mama Emma's youngest who has Down's Syndrome.  She is a gorgeous little pumpkin of a 4-year-old who just recently learned to walk.  "Emma!  Go run after that chicken and give it to Mama Hannah!"

                                                          

Emma ran around the yard furiously, chasing a world-class runner of a chicken, grabbed it recklessly, and brought it to Lauren.  She held it delicately, and seizing its opportunity for escape, it flapped desperately and let out a series of loud squawks right in Ben's face.  Ben loves chickens as much as I do, but he loves them from a distance.  He let out his own series of loud squawks and clung to me.  Mama Emma and the children roared with laughter, and then Mama Emma promptly advised:

"He needs a bath!"

She was only dissuaded when she found out that he had just had a bath.

Five minutes ago.

She sent us on our way with our speckled hen and a heart full of the good medicine of laughter.  My heart is always full when I leave the village.  Full, and humbled.

Truly, "those who walk in pride, He is able to humble" Dan. 4:37

The hidden reason for poverty...

To catch a thief

This post has been a long time coming. It keeps having little postscripts added to it.  I'm still not sure the story has actually ended!

I used to think, in my pride, that I was a pretty good judge of character.  Someone lying?  I thought I could see right through that.  Who was really needy, who was kind of faking it.  At least once I knew them for any amount of time.

Living in Africa, drenched in another culture, language and innuendos, has knocked my self-confident feet right out from under me.  From the street boys who say they are starving, then scoff at the offered banana, to the people who come to the gate who don't seem so desperate but I find out actually are....I find myself constantly asking the Lord for wisdom.  Which is good, because only God really knows our hearts to begin with and I would hate to remain in my lofty state of Mrs. Know-it-all.

The first time a thief was caught on our block, we found out what it was like to watch a mob that was blood-thirsty to the core.  It made me feel sick for the rest of the day.  In the end, after they had beat the simple man mercilessly and tried to stone him, they decided to run him over with a motorcycle and driving him away in our car was the only thing that saved his life.  One young man in particular was gleeful about hitting him with his grass slasher, "Islam says if you steal, you can lose your hand.  You can go home with one hand today."  When we begged for mercy, they said, "next time it will be you who gets robbed."

The second thief was caught in the afternoon, three guys having taken money and a phone at four in  the afternoon at knifepoint, only one guy having been caught.  Again, the mob arrived within      minutes, and Hannah heard the man saying his last prayers as they sharpened blades and made him      
lay down.  A minute later they dispersed and she was sure they had beheaded him and left him in    front of our gate, but by some miracle they had decided to take him to the police station instead.  Not only would that have been horrifically sad, but evidently his body would have been our responsibility since it was outside our house.

The third thief was our thief.  We had been robbed the day after Stephanie arrived, and had a couple nice chunks out of the concrete to show for it, outside the metal grate and locked door.  Two in the afternoon on a Sunday was evidently not intimidating for these bold guys that hopped into the mango tree, pried the metal door and bashed the other one in.  They relieved us of all the electronics they could find and hopped the back fence when they heard us coming home.

Praise the Lord for nursing babies.  Two weeks later, Lauren, Stephanie and I stayed home from youth group when the rest left, as they weren't feeling well.  I was sitting in the living room with Ben,  
when I noticed some guys outside our fence that were just standing and staring at it.  I got up, looked out the window and to my amazement they were lifting one guy up into the mango tree again.  I told         Lauren to take the baby to the back room and we hurried to the hallway and locked it, as the outside door was already locked.  I whispered to Stephanie who kept her wits about her and asked if I had any kind of weapon besides the pepper spray gun in my hand.  "Well, Dave has a crossbow, but I don't know how to use it."  Practical Steph--"it's ok, I'll just hold it!"  Bless her.  I had already called Dave, who was on his way, and we looked for the thieves on the other side of the house....and waited, and saw one guy on the street, and as best as we can figure, the thieves must have gotten spooked by someone walking on the street and were waiting for a clear road again when Dave and the kids and our night guard showed up along with Bill in another car.  After a chase, our guard caught one guy who had a story that didn't add up, and dragged him back to our gate.  Of course, the mob gathered again, mostly due to the abundance of cell phones and people looking for something to do.    

And the beatings commenced, while Dave called the police and asked them to come before he was beat to death.  And when we thought he was done for, face shoved in a puddle to drown him and sticks breaking over his bloody body, the police did show up, threw his body in the back of the truck and told him to start talking, or they would give him back to the mob and haul him out, dead.  He did   say he had stolen a computer at our house two weeks earlier.

 After the police walked through our house, they went to the station with Dave, where they told him that he had, "made a big mistake."  He should have dragged the guy into our house and put a "little something" in his hand and said that he stole that, so there would be something to charge him for. We didn't feel better after hearing the police say we should have framed the guy.  This was right after our discussion about what the best way is to deal with thieves.  We should use the authority that is in place, right?  That is what we came up with, and I do think that is the best we can do.  So what about    when the police say to just kill the thief, as they often do?   And as horrible as it is to see the mob  beat thieves, what hope of justice can you offer them?  What reason do they have to not handle it themselves when often the police are just paid off? For those of us from the west, we really can't imagine living in a land with little justice. "You white people love to give mercy and  you need to stop!" they said as they beat him mercilessly.

Back to thinking I could spot crooked character....one youth who was present at the beatings, and particularly vicious, really made me angry.  He was out for blood, intent on killing.  He was happy for a chance to beat someone.

And he was the first one to show up when our neighbor's baby died.  Long, too-painful story short, little Junior died in the night and his daddy showed up early in the morning asking Dave for help.  We attended the funeral later on that day, and the youth who delighted in bloodying the thieves worked   just as hard to dig out a grave for this little baby.  He was respectful at the funeral, compassionate, the  first one to help hold the tiny coffin.  If I would have just seen him on that day, I would have said that he was a decent young man, kind.  Getting my head around the contrast of those two scenarios was impossible.

But one thing I do know:  Jesus came for us all.  For the ones who look good, and the ones who look bad, and sometimes the ones who look good have the greater need.  As we often tell our children, we should not be surprised when people who don't know Jesus act like....people who don't know Jesus.  We should make sure that our lives match up with our words that we do know Jesus, that we are the Christ-followers.  We need mercy as much as anyone.  He could just as easily have thrown the first stone at us as at the woman caught in adultery.  We all need this Savior and His mercy.  Every day.

Faith puts its flip flops on and gets to work

Sometimes I wonder how long it will take me to get a grip on some spiritual truth.  Walking by faith is just one of those things.  For about two years now, I have been diving again and again into the deep waters of faith which are Hebrews 11 and 12.  It seems like every time I do, I'm challenged in new ways. 

Unrelated, it had seemed, to my study of faith, is my increasing battle with my thoughts about feeling like I have "too much" to do.  How can I be everything to everybody?  How can I do all I should when I feel like the list replenishes itself as soon as I complete something? 

 I'm not used to feeling this way.  I like to have my life under some kind of control (even if, to some of you, it appears to be chaotic....it is my own, controlled, happy chaos!). :)  I am not used to feeling like just throwing in the proverbial towel.  My battle with my thoughts feels so constant. 

"Here's the question: how wholesome, faith-driven, and Christ-centered is the conversation that you have with yourself every day?  Do you remind yourself of your need?  Do you point yourself once again to the beauty and practicality of God's grace?  Do you tell yourself to run toward him in those moments when you feel like running from him?

No one is more influential in your life than you are, because no one talks to you as much as you talk to yourself."

Hanging up the clothes, while gazing into the blue sky, palm trees swishing in the breeze and birds flying effortlessly overhead, I asked God, "Why?  Why does my life feel so chaotic?  I want peace, abundant life.  I feel noisy and muddled in my head.  I want freedom; not freedom from demands, but freedom from striving.  Your yoke is easy and your burden is light.  It doesn't feel light.  Do I need a better system, or is this just how it's going to be?"

And He reminds me that not only is Hebrews 11 not irrelevent to this moment, but in fact Hebrews 11 was made for this moment.  Isn't this what I have wanted and, in fact, prayed for?  A life that cannot be explained by anything other than the fact that Jesus is alive in me?  A life that clings to Him? 

 I don't want a life that can be boiled down to an organized method, as tempting as that sounds.  I have thought many times that my goal for my home was to run it like a "well-oiled machine."  That's a great goal, but most days it just isn't reality.  A well-oiled machine doesn't leave room for people at the door and peace-making opportunities over the dishes and plans that change and mis-communication :) with the man I adore.  Not to mention amoebas and a baby's new sleep habits and interruptions at every level.  The faith of Hebrews 11 gets up, puts its shoes on, grabs several cups of coffee and gets to work, trusting that the GOD who leads will also provide everything that is needed for the journey.  

I loved a sermon I heard on the practicalities of Hebrews 11.  One morning, he reminded us,  Noah actually got up, ate some toast and eggs, and headed out to start cutting down trees.  He is not just some foggy character with a big, white beard.  This man chose to start out one morning by faith and do the craziest thing anyone could imagine.  

James 2:17 "so then, faith, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead." 

Oh, Jesus, could it be that this crazy is what a life of faith will feel like the second I take my eyes off of you?  I think so...there are times of peace, even rest in the midst of it all, but only when I have my mind and heart set on you.  When I do set my eyes on you, it doesn't matter what happens, because I know what to preach to myself.  I know You will, in fact, give me more than I can handle so that I can't handle it on my own.  You hear my cry, you come to my rescue.  You want to be my strength, and I can't do this life without you.  

"Nothing without joy," has become my battle cry.  That eliminates a lot of extraneous, and the things that remain demand joy.  I remember when I had three little ones and the baby had spilled cheerios and milk all over the kitchen floor.  I was so tired, and worn out, and I was on my hands and knees cleaning it all up with tears streaming down my face.  Tears!  Over spilled milk!  But by God's grace, it was a dying-to-self moment.  "I'll do what you want me to do, even if it means spending my time cleaning up milk and cereal."  It seems like a waste, so insignificant.  But it isn't wasted, and its significance for growth is determined by my response.  

"You're always preaching some kind of gospel to yourself.  It's a gospel of aloneness and partiality and injustice and a graceless world--or it's the true gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ that orients you in these moments where everything seems like sinking sand."

This was meant to be a post about something else entirely, but it's what is on my heart.  God, help us to live lives of FAITH, with ACTION, for Your glory.

"...that your faith should not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God." I Cor. 2:5

All quotes are from Paul Tripp.

May my soap box Rest In Peace

I want to be known for something.

It's easy, as a wife and mom and homeschooling mom and lover of most things domestic to pour my time and energy into those things--which is part of my calling, but only part.

Do I really want on my tombstone, "Boy, did she ever make great wheat bread."??
Or that I was fit, or sang well, or had great kids, or was really efficient?  Is that what life boils down to?  Are the things I spend my time on the things that really matter?  Because I'm sure I can pinterest my days away right to my last fascinated breath and miss what I'm here for.  Oh God, let it not be!

It feels like the clock is ticking ever-so-quickly.  We watch in awe as Ben drags himself, army-style, across the living room.  He is learning his boundaries at the moment, "No touch."  He is learning not to scream.

 From this vantage point, unlike when our first was tiny, it literally feels like it will just be a moment and he'll be signing up for the SAT.

However, instead of being depressed over the inevitable change that comes with having children growing and leaving, I find myself increasingly motivated to use every single moment that I have with them.

There are only so many nights that you hug your child and say, "I love you."

The big kids don't make forts in the living room anymore.  I clearly remember a time when I didn't want the mess of forts.  Really--the mess of forts?  How long does that take to clean up, five minutes?  I can get the mud off the floor, but I can't get back the fun times of running in the rain.  And I don't want my children to rise and call me "Clean, and Proper."  I want my children to remember that I loved Jesus, and I loved people.  Which brings me back to my original point.

We make up what it looks like to be a "good Christian," or a good wife, or good mom, or whatever,  because we don't know how to love like God asks us to love.  Because that IS what He says will set us apart from the world.

John 13:35, "Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples."

Are you sure it isn't my wheat bread?  Because it's a lot easier to take pride in my wheat bread than to actually love, by Your grace and power, like you ask me to love.  And I think maybe being good at domestic duties and making people think I'm super woman should prove something to the world.  Yes, actually, it does prove something to the world.  It proves that I can do it by myself, that I don't really need God and neither do they.

I'm really all for domestic duties and serving in my home, don't get me wrong.  I just am tired of hearing about what we're all against to the point that it seems like we forget what we're FOR. We're against genetically modified crops and drugs and big government and loose theology.  But are we FOR Jesus, and forgiving, and loving our neighbors, and not being anxious, and learning to walk by faith and not by sight?  And am I FOR grace, and freedom, and obedience, and daily taking up the cross of service? Does my life overflow with the abundance of the Spirit?  Those are the questions I  ask myself.

And under the umbrella of loving Jesus, and loving others, I will hone in my bread making ability, to the glory of God. :)

I lift my eyes to the hills…

It keeps coming back to me lately…this persistent wondering about the final goal of parenting.  I want to work my way backwards, so to speak—beginning at a goal, figuring out how to get to that goal.  What exactly IS the goal?  And if I start with the wrong goal, then I will surely miss true priorities in the process.  And how much does culture play into what our goals are?  Do I want, as I often read in missionary material, “children that are well adjusted to their home culture”?  Well, I really don’t want children that “fit” in any culture.  But I understand the point.  However, I am fairly certain that aiming low will not produce high results.  And aiming high with standards that are not biblical will just result in the child’s frustration and feeling like they are never good enough.  Truth be told, they aren’t good enough.  And neither is their mother.  Isn’t that the point?  If I really am a Christ-follower, like I claim to be, shouldn’t His wisdom be enough for me?  And doesn’t faith grab hold of His promises and walk into the unknown, unsure, with confidence that their Maker is bound to know more than I am?! 

So in our process of figuring out “school” for the year, our goals come back to the same thing as last year and the year before.  If “he who desires to be an elder desires a good thing,” then doesn’t it go without saying that aiming for elder qualities and character traits is a safe bet….and if Titus 2 is supposed to teach women how to live in a wise way, isn’t it more than adequate to train our little daughters in those things as well?  And if “the wisdom of the world is passing away, but the man of God lives forever,” then my strategy for raising “successful” children, and even the definition of “success” should look radically different than my worldly counterpart. Every day I make a choice to listen to the “wisdom” of the world or God’s wisdom from above.  We can take these moments of frustration and anger and hard words and turn them into opportunities for grace, or we can get angry ourselves because the math lesson doesn’t get completed and someone is interrupting grammar, again.  The value of having this many personalities to learn to get along with can get lost in the ever-sharpening blade of sanctification when I resist His will for me, which happens to be that very same blade.  Lord, can’t you make me more like Jesus any other way?  But, truly, “before I was afflicted I went away, but now I heed your word. (Psalm 119:67)”   
  If my goal is that my children cry out for a Redeemer and Savior, then I will not resist the hard things for them either, wanting their lives to be always happy and without trials.  In fact, I will embrace those things for and with them, as I encourage them to pursue Someone greater than themselves.  And if my goal is that they would live more than “safe” lives, spending their time and money and resources and energy on others instead of themselves, then I have to lead them towards those ends now.  Which will come at a great cost to me, because it means I have to look at my own life and my own lack of willingness and beg God to change me first, let me lead in mercy and service.  Which is often what I don’t feel like doing.  

Oh God, use my tiny seconds of a life to raise these children in a way that honors you.  So much is at stake—if our children have seven of their own, I will be reaping what I have sown in 49 little lives in one generation.  Sobering.  To have other little ones, no matter how many, be bearing the fruit of your life is humbling.  Let me not grow weary in well doing.

  Show me what that looks like in each moment….another spilled cup of something (I think we might have the record!), a hurt, a joy, everyday conversation.  This is your idea, this business of sharing life together with little people, and ever-bigger ones.

Your words are not just empty words for me.  They are, quite literally, my very life (Deut. 32:47).

Strengthen my heart with grace (Heb.13:9). 

“Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me.” II Cor. 12:9

Drink Chai and Settle Down

Sometimes, from a distance, life in Africa seems quiet and serene.  I think that's when I haven't been living here for a while.  It is quiet, in its own way, not in a lack-of-noise way, or a lack-of-people-coming-to-the-gate way, but more in a relaxed way.  Quiet, as in, if you are in a hurry, you should stop it and relax and go drink a cup of chai until you get that out of your system.  Quiet, as in, why did you plan to get so many things in town on the same morning?  Because that rarely happens and you might be setting yourself up for disappointment.

As I type, I have ten neighborhood children from around the corner playing soccer in the yard, greeting me through the window.  Which can take a very long time, since greetings have to be done individually.  And that is not a problem, just a consideration when everyone gets invited in.  This morning we had electricians in the house to fix the problem of the house power shutting down when I turned the oven on.  We can make it without an oven, but it sure is nice to have one.  I'm gonna make these guys some bread first-thing. :)

The last time they came, they found a massive mound of grass in our attic that had been brought in by some over-zealous birds, along with significant amount of bat guano.  That got hauled out, down through the bathroom ceiling for the entire morning, about thirty bucket's worth.  whew.  Today they were still working around lunch time so they ate with us.  Then Esther, who blesses our socks off by helping in the house, had a toothache, so we put some medicine on it and I recommended going to the dentist but she said she might just wait until it stops hurting and then she can just pull it out. (!!)

The milk arrives at the gate on bicycle, brought by a man who wears a bright green Christmas hat.  I'm not sure why he does, but it comes in handy because I always know it's him.  The milk is brought in, boiled, skimmed, put in the fridge.  The beans are sorted, the rice is sorted, washed, and cooked.  At times I really like having the house to myself and decide that the kids and I can just do everything.  So we end up sorting beans during chai time and washing rice in the afternoon.  Or I decide, what's the big deal with washing the rice, and we all break our teeth on the rocks I didn't pick out.  Or we're doing math problems frantically while we get the laundry down because it's going to rain.  And it works, in a sense, but then when Esther is here there is a degree of sanity that arrives as well. :)

And then we have to figure out if we have a guard or not.  Can't we just live in the house with our dog and not worry about a guard?  Well, yes, but then guards are mostly just a precaution anyways, as they are usually either sleeping or trying to wake you up.  I remember our first morning in Africa, 2005, and the sun had just started to think about coming up when the guard, Emma, was standing next to our bedroom window hoeing weeds from the concrete.  6 o'clock in the morning.  Clink, clink, clink.  And, as we have come to suspect, it is a sign of a hard worker to be up early, so the guard tries to let you know that he is up early by making noise.  Like talking on the phone right outside the window a couple of days ago.  Or snipping the bushes out front into nice, smooth, round balls, Disney-style. While I'm trying to get a couple more winks in.   And all we can do is lay in bed and laugh.
Or cry.
I choose laugh.
We have collected a plethora of humorous guard stories in our repertoire of house sitting.  Like when our light finally went out at night about 11:30 and Dave's phone rang.  And it was the guard right outside the window, calling him to let him know a door was unlocked.  And the reception was bad, which was good, because we could hear him clearer through the window than on the phone.  And we had a new awareness of exactly how un-private our lives were.  And this same guard, he liked to sit right outside the living room window and wind his flashlight to recharge it.  Whirrr, whirrr, whirrrrrrrrrr.   In a similar way to knowing the wind is blowing but not being able to see it, the guard's presence is felt in so many unique ways.

When you get out on the street there is not a shred of privacy.  I mean, we get stares in America when we walk around with this many children.  Here, one white person is a novelty, much less nine of us.
Last week I walked by an evangelistic meeting that had been set up near our house.  I was trying to be nonchalant and the girls and I were walking on the other side of the road.  All of a sudden the Swahili changed to English, "We are waiting for you!!"  I'm pretty sure I was the one they were waiting for.  Blending in is ever-elusive.

And at other times the advice starts coming,
"Don't let the baby suck his thumb."
"Why are you carrying the baby that way?  That's not how to carry a baby."
They grab the baby, he starts crying, "He's crying!  You need to nurse him!"
And then another lady, "You need to wean him!"
The most hilarious time was a little kindergartner who came to my gate and I arrived, carrying the baby facing out.  "White lady!  You don't carry a baby like that!!!"  Even the little children know how to carry babies better than I do.

The main topic of conversation, if you're seeing friends you haven't seen in a while, is how you have expanded.  "Wow, Mama Hannah, you are FAT!  Where have you been?  America?  Oh wow--America has been good to you!  Because you are BIG!  You had a baby?  Oh, that's probably why you're so LARGE!"  The thing I liked most about this conversation is how it didn't faze me in the slightest.  I know, I know, bring it on.  Fat, fat, fat.  Keep talking until you get it all out.  I was just excited to be in a country where everyone thought I looked so much better large. :)  And frankly, it felt really good to not have the slightest bit of self-consciousness about the whole thing.  If I come back and tell you that you look fat, remember it's a compliment.

And finally, the "Quiet Life" is punctuated by "Hodi"'s--the Swahili equivalent of a knock on the door.  "Hodi, Hodi," and it just continues until you go to the gate.  It may be the little children looking for playmates, or the man with the chickens who wants water for them, or a mama wanting help with food or a little business or a friend stopping by for a visit or a medical need or my neighbor selling cabbage...the thing about hodi's is that you always have to be ready for anything.

Sometimes at the beginning of the day, I feel like I'm at the top of a roller coaster, looking down, down at the track.  I know I can't fall off the track, but I also anticipate a wild ride.  It's a good ride--guided by the One who prepared this course just for me.

“I have always been complaining that my work was constantly interrupted, until I slowly discovered that my interruptions were my work.”--Henri J. Nouwen