tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75957577797875910442024-03-05T01:39:05.168-08:00.forever a gypsy.“If I discover within myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world” -CS LewisKristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-86568266565881927642010-02-25T15:36:00.000-08:002010-02-25T20:26:25.765-08:00.remembering community.<div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjg1roPB-j9WDiD8HhG7_44dJbAsk3ac-jLYp-tu0mdZTfX_wRRjRZPjSgDpzpMIF7aNK8ZCSziPv1jTow9cL0904dkUTk84dmGgUa5XHSVycdeutR5r0h89kXDLLtEEAknEPr9_v0GI8/s1600-h/dunkin-donuts.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437428309331190162" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 147px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjg1roPB-j9WDiD8HhG7_44dJbAsk3ac-jLYp-tu0mdZTfX_wRRjRZPjSgDpzpMIF7aNK8ZCSziPv1jTow9cL0904dkUTk84dmGgUa5XHSVycdeutR5r0h89kXDLLtEEAknEPr9_v0GI8/s200/dunkin-donuts.gif" border="0" /></a><br />I went through the drive-thru for my coffee this morning. Hit up the drive-thru at the bank. Ran through the drive-thru pharmacy. Went to Wal-Mart and did self check out. Came home to find some warm boots for Berlin and bought them on the internet.<br /><br />I was basically "out and about" all day and never had to speak to another person.<br /><br />Now granted, in the mood I've been in since I got back in the States, I've been grateful to dodge 90% of the American population. Then I remember that I'm an extrovert and that people ENERGIZE me. I can be in the <i>worst</i> mood, and a pleasant conversation can lift my spirits. So, how did I feel heading back to my house this afternoon after technology and laziness had successfully isolated me from everyone? *About as cheery as I had when I left... *Insert sarcasm here<br /><br />It makes me reflect on the last year, and I come up with a few conclusions. Isolation is definitely not what Christ had in mind. That's one area where anywhere outside the Western world seems to have a few more of their ducks in a row. In Selaphum, Thailand there was no front door. Seriously. Neighbors, friends, family, church members...they all came and went as they pleased. They helped cook dinner when they weren't eating. They moved clothes to the clothesline, even if the clothes weren't theirs. It was beautiful. Everyone was there to serve and love. Now granted, there were disagreements here and there, but there was no where to go pout afterward. Instead, you sucked it up, got over yourself, forgave, and moved on with your life.</div><div> </div><br /><div>I think about how we'd react here if those things started happening. Think about it...Mom is stressed and the neighbor has a spare afternoon, so she comes over and helps fold the laundry. Well, not only would we be irritated that the neighbor bust in, unannounced, while the house was dirty, but she also invaded personal space by folding my clean clothes. Unacceptable.</div><div><br />In Africa as we distributed corn to needy families, I watched as one family would walk away with a bucket of corn and pour <span style="font-style: italic;">half of</span> their portion into a needy neighbor's bucket. These</div><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvTYsHvNks1_AnyM7oaJff-rxP7f8ziHudBJG3YFlN3KFLOwKRQUuGjrkhakiU_IQ2xJbahStQBe7RtULRJJDOo9cZOFTPYkCysAh7SMENaEeKTX8__TDUYAtuepN9Z5jXGKpUVHVlsU/s320/Sharing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442283256878184482" border="0" /><div> people receiving the corn from the ministry had next to nothing. The corn provided was some of the only food they would be given for months. Despite their struggle though, I'll bet the option of not helping to feed their neighbor never crossed their mind. It would appear that they practice the idea that if your neighbor is in need, you share a chunk of what is fully available, not just enough to feel charitable. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know this is very general statement, but it seems that whether we're struggling in the States or not, we tend to hoard everything that we own for ourselves. It's an "every man for himself" kind of mentality. How disappointing.</div><br /><div>Now, I understand this is a result of how our culture has developed. It just seems as if we've done ourself a disservice in isolating ourselves from the world around us. It seems that the majority of us have forgotten what community is, the blessings it provides, and how it operates. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, what is the Lord challenging me with this afternoon? Utilizing community, loving my neighbor, and offering a smile and a kind word to the lady behind the Dunkin Donuts counter. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">"By this all people will know that you are my disciplines, if you have love for one another." -John 13:35</div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-5528707384913528652010-02-16T13:22:00.000-08:002010-02-26T10:12:38.607-08:00.twas the season.<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 78%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRHSc5y7cr_eVRRvcmycdHD2GkNlMcaDJ9pO2c9bSxAus065yhqZjkhqTpPia1Ik-cUsfce7gEEGIvCrOzKqJvGq43Vsx7EjOdxRpJzwuDMOWysLqSJT0wWEyhRlWvp2p-g1bkxkPugOw/s1600-h/christmas_gifts.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439622912839814706" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRHSc5y7cr_eVRRvcmycdHD2GkNlMcaDJ9pO2c9bSxAus065yhqZjkhqTpPia1Ik-cUsfce7gEEGIvCrOzKqJvGq43Vsx7EjOdxRpJzwuDMOWysLqSJT0wWEyhRlWvp2p-g1bkxkPugOw/s200/christmas_gifts.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 160px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 213px;" /></a> <br />
</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 78%;"> <br />
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</style> <span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">This is a journal entry I wrote from Christmas, but I thought I'd share....</span> <br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"> Today, in light of the Christmas season, I thought I'd attempt to tackle some Christmas shopping, my first post-race attempt. I convinced myself I wouldn’t cry, dared to put on </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small; font-style: italic;">regular</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: 78%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> mascara and headed towards the mall. Pulling into one of the more affluent shopping centers near my house, I battled my way to a parking space and took a minute to prepare for the holiday madness that I was sure to encounter.</span> <br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">In a desperate attempt to avoid the energized soccer moms around me, I was focused in on the sound of my heels on the concrete. But, before</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> I got safely inside the front doors my </span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">sense memory took off running. There was something oddly familiar here. That smell. What was it? Something international. I began looking around and had a flashback to the streets of Johannesburg, South Africa when I would sit between the hair salon and Shell Station with my 67 year old, homeless friend, Walter. I flash back to reality to see a man outside the clothing boutique I'm about to enter. </span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">His t</span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">attered, mismatched clothing hangs loosely on his skinny frame as he sifts through the garbage in search of food. His hair is pulled back by a camouflage beanie while the ends matte together in greasy clumps at each shoulder, and his dress pants are smudged with what I'm praying is dirt. Empty fast food bags overflow from each pocket of his fishing vest, and a nervous twitch seems to have him gnawing on his bottom lip. The look on his face as he digs through that garbage tears at my heart. I watch him as he lifts out a Steak ‘n Shake cup, rips off the lid, and licks the shake residue lining the cup. </span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Without a word, I head for Panera. I buy a pastry, a drink, a cup of soup, and a sandwich, and start looking for my hungry friend. No where to be found! I scan each trash-bin around the parking lot and start to panic. An entire year of tears start to heat behind my eyes, and for the next 45 minutes I drive around the adjacent shopping centers pleading with the Lord to let me find him.</span> <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzrjwXAU1aVL8yeyUZvY6d8jZAo3Q78O5Il0TNbiyyPI35cM_oJBlrmvpUCz8zSjBbvsGUc6AGt9cFSW8TG12kiyTrLWLl5OrTnCDmH01VF8Aw4zvIO6TVXP4YDE4VlMgwqV7MhvO5p4/s1600-h/IMG_7700.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427092160134892050" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbzrjwXAU1aVL8yeyUZvY6d8jZAo3Q78O5Il0TNbiyyPI35cM_oJBlrmvpUCz8zSjBbvsGUc6AGt9cFSW8TG12kiyTrLWLl5OrTnCDmH01VF8Aw4zvIO6TVXP4YDE4VlMgwqV7MhvO5p4/s200/IMG_7700.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 173px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 231px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Finally, I find him cradled up on a bench outside Walgreen's. <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"I've got some extra grub," I said. "You interested?"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He wa</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">rily excepts the gift, seeming a bit skeptical, and clutchs it to his chest, never letting his eyes leave my face. I could tell by his gaze that he was delayed to follow me and might not be comprehending exactly what it was I was trying to do. So, I launch into chatty-Kristen mode and hope for the best. </span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I yapped for a few minutes about the soup, Christmas chaos, and what a beautiful day it was turning out to be....I watched him relax and ease the death-grip on the paper bag.</span> <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Oh, and there is a pastry in there that you're NOT ALLOWED to touch until the soup is gone. Do you understand?!? Protein first." <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">He takes a minute to process what I've said. I watch it register and a smile spread across his face. </span><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimD1WnyRRlPqq1EWioopTjtnpkeFfXes0Ugp-hdaEG85w-VmXFQsyCt3yIpmC0law_BTtufQvKnrNw2JOPE1XJgrSz3aAkeIWlVXAe8_PWp1KfQnaAzjLRXeHvjv5m0I8spB3E7Ks6rE/s1600-h/IMG_7633.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427092470056407442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhimD1WnyRRlPqq1EWioopTjtnpkeFfXes0Ugp-hdaEG85w-VmXFQsyCt3yIpmC0law_BTtufQvKnrNw2JOPE1XJgrSz3aAkeIWlVXAe8_PWp1KfQnaAzjLRXeHvjv5m0I8spB3E7Ks6rE/s200/IMG_7633.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 207px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 275px;" /></a></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">I wish him a Merry Christmas and head off to my car. Shifting into drive though, I watch as he hops off the bench, waves enthusiastically, and screams "Merry Christmas" at the top of his lungs with a huge smile.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I suppressed all the enthusiasm I really felt, gave him a wave, and smiled. "Merry Christmas, friend." <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold;">My heart was full.</span> <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I was almost giddy as I drove out of the parking lot. Watching that man smile and wave was all the gift that I needed that holiday season. I was overwhelmed. At the same time though, my heart was shattered into a million tiny pieces as I thought of the dozens of families that had scurried past him in that shopping center, dodging eye contact, and pretending as if they hadn't seen him at all. It would have taken 15 minutes and a few dollars to fill that man's hungry belly. </span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">How often have I overlooked the prayers of brothers and sisters because I was too busy? How often do I intentionally close my eyes to the needs of others because I'm too worried about meeting my <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> needs and following my <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> agenda? How often do we have the desire to help but justify not acting because we assume someone else will take over? If I learned anything this year, I've learned that when the Lord speaks to my heart, that He does so with intention and purpose. Perhaps the hungry man didn't break others the way it broke me that afternoon. So, I'm to take what He speaks to me and prayerfully consider what He'll have me do with it. Sometimes that soft voice means I need to spend some serious time in prayer. Other times it means offering a kind word to someone who has hurt me. And sometimes, it means that I give up my daily Starbucks for an extra sandwich.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">How can I better listen? Lord, help attune our ears to Your voice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: 78%;"> <br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: verdana;"></div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-55650739590715505162010-01-28T11:23:00.000-08:002010-02-12T21:57:11.722-08:00.the next step.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqyav591COf0xPNJ6CQoFsI5BF0s-UPTCcRPktTH4MfZmMu8Uhsy1pedLPPs99UD74agecTP4DWt3IKrJrrlg32_mRWTB1Bs8PkBqTflVQLBs4B39B-f6YBvJhRR7nYCWgV6oJHWHCYQ/s1600-h/suburbia.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 189px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 183px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437602828087179842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqyav591COf0xPNJ6CQoFsI5BF0s-UPTCcRPktTH4MfZmMu8Uhsy1pedLPPs99UD74agecTP4DWt3IKrJrrlg32_mRWTB1Bs8PkBqTflVQLBs4B39B-f6YBvJhRR7nYCWgV6oJHWHCYQ/s200/suburbia.jpg" /></a><br /><br />the blinking cursor taunts me. it mocks me. daring me to write.<br /><br />I've tried for 6 weeks and come up empty every time, knowing that im due for an update.<br /><br />But how do you summarize adjustment into a life that should be easy? I know this world. I know these people. It's familiar, and it's - comfortable. so, what's the problem?<br /><br />Well, if I truly explored that question, we'd be here a while. We don't have time for that. So, summarized version? This readjustment has been way more difficult than I anticipated. I've lost my community and immediate access to the only 5 women who walked every inch of this journey with me. I don't really know how to do life outside of community anymore, and that's overwhelming. I'm in the process of trying to merge very different parts of my life, and I don't know how. I'm trying to process and organize what the next step will look like in pursuing the enormous dreams the Lord has laid on my heart to make reality. Dreams that He has blessed me with on how I can better love His people, in His name, around the world, and if I opt to ignore those dreams, I'll never be content. Basically, I'm irrevocably screwed up. Discontent with the ordinary. Forever a gypsy. However you want to phrase it...<br /><br />Tonight, a friend was gracious enough to lend their ear while this verbal processor talked herself into a more concise explanation of her current situation and plans for the future. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5EllGVKrwZ1ycWeRxkdutyqhcP4eEikaFZH5SNOz1-xHVu8wQaYvLvLcvSEW3oeuaREADhZI76rjseUx56QyVzFVIopCmF6xm4h1_7nldqDHSM-AkRzAKRxnDJsw6F_g9ieBEig3YZQ/s1600-h/fork-in-the-road.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 211px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 159px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437602612845746098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5EllGVKrwZ1ycWeRxkdutyqhcP4eEikaFZH5SNOz1-xHVu8wQaYvLvLcvSEW3oeuaREADhZI76rjseUx56QyVzFVIopCmF6xm4h1_7nldqDHSM-AkRzAKRxnDJsw6F_g9ieBEig3YZQ/s200/fork-in-the-road.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Basically? I'm at a fork where I must make a choice that will launch me in one of two different directions. Do I follow the familiar path of stability that I've loved before the World Race? Or do I risk following a new, often misunderstood, and unknown path? Regardless, I can't stay still. I don't do stagnant, but I know I can't make everyone happy in the pursuit of the next step. So, I'm just sticking with where i feel Him leading. It will be uncomfortable. It might ruffle feathers, but - hey, ive always been good at that.<br /><br />Right now? Well, I'm finally back in Birmingham and working to make it home again. I'm subbing and preparing to spend my summer back in the jungle at Puerto Alegria. 2 full of months of Peru. I'm might be excited about that...<br /><br />March? I'm really excited to be heading back to Berlin for a BURN March 8th-17th. I'll be joining Hollis and the Magnet family for a week of worship, good coffee, and electronic monopoly! :)<br /><br />AUGUST?? The Lord has opened up an amazing opportunity for me this August. Not Forgotten is a nonprofit organization in Birmingham that raises funds for Puerto Alegria, the children's home in Iquitos, Peru where I've served for the last 5 years. Not Forgotten is continuing to grow and has offered me a position on staff with them starting in August. I'll be working alongside some of the greatest people i know to promote awareness of Not Forgotten and needs within the children's home. My JOB will be talking to everyone I know about Peru and helping lead people to the jungle. SERIOUSLY?!? Anyone who knows me might find that amusing. :) If you're interested in serving with me or supporting my future within Peru, PLEASE check out the website @ thenotforgotten.org.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-44310770192553638952010-01-13T19:26:00.001-08:002010-02-25T20:54:22.701-08:00.jungle bunny visits home.<span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemFRoNml8I5jP31x0GJ-MYY8Wi9pIk6pfNX-YivyLH0uTcrklAvQEHiEuvfHcgVuhkZd3_6DZ-wePQYHWekghMaJUZewbHaWm_WzPTmHV-9SMlcW_Z334ELiIwwtIDNZoRz-rHFYuRbU/s1600-h/IMG_1451.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjemFRoNml8I5jP31x0GJ-MYY8Wi9pIk6pfNX-YivyLH0uTcrklAvQEHiEuvfHcgVuhkZd3_6DZ-wePQYHWekghMaJUZewbHaWm_WzPTmHV-9SMlcW_Z334ELiIwwtIDNZoRz-rHFYuRbU/s200/IMG_1451.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426434597206378434" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >After 18 months of absence, this "jungle bunny" returns to the land of tree frogs, fish, and Peruvians. Hom</span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >e </span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >has changed though. The ministry has shifted, boys have left, and the ones who remain have grown up. I'm anticipating the change but unaware of how it will affect me. Oh Lord, calm this anxiety cause I don't know whether to scream, laugh, cry, or pull a 180 back to Lima. I'm seriously on the verge of losing my mind.</span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >The jungle humidity offers no apologies, the vultures hover, and the heat wraps around me like a warm blanket. I step off the air-conditioned plane and into my first dose of familiarity all year. Am I excited? That would be an understatement. Am I horrified? Absol</span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >utely. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >The familiar charges me forward. I’ve been anxious all year to reach that rickety staircase where 40 children await our arrival, but I'm nearly paralyzed by fear. I'm scared they've forgotten, hopeful that they haven't, and anxious for the result either way.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >Despite my anxiety, it's time for hammocks, soccer, and cement. I say, "Bring it on."<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >My reunion wasn't one of screams and leaping children. My children have grown. It wasn't full of tears. Except for my tears of relief in private. It was calm. And had I not been paying attention, I would have missed the mumbled promises throughout the week that I was missed. <sub><o:p></o:p></sub></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" > I had water fights with Luis Enrique, jumped on the trampoline with Hox, and fished with my beloved twins. It was amazing.</span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" > Construction was the same. The sun still scorched me and my </span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >heart was overwhelmed each time I held one of those children. I still love them as much as I did a ye</span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >ar ago, and much to my relief, they still love me too. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlO_GQ5Idiu0MMZecVGlN00LG7bHigy60P-y96xgKq2VEG0MEhDeaP7b9m4-EdIVSA855_TPHz4R0TnGt-bcccztQxJLHXRPvC1KkKD4XR2rc7wfwgDE3mHegF_wNVplnjHn7xG7EvhU/s1600-h/bryan+y+yo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlO_GQ5Idiu0MMZecVGlN00LG7bHigy60P-y96xgKq2VEG0MEhDeaP7b9m4-EdIVSA855_TPHz4R0TnGt-bcccztQxJLHXRPvC1KkKD4XR2rc7wfwgDE3mHegF_wNVplnjHn7xG7EvhU/s200/bryan+y+yo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426666826905162898" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >So, </span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >at this point, I know a lot of you are probably shaking your heads saying, “Kristen, it isn’t </span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >about you. It doesn’t matter if they missed you.” My response? Yeah, I know, but I love those children fiercely and can’t help but wonder if they noticed my absence while I prayed for them everyday. I know it's not about being remembered. But to return to a land that looks so much like the others where I’ve been this year, but see <span style="font-style: italic;">recognition </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">comfort</span> in the smiles of the children, reminds me that such consistency can exist for those I invested in for such a short time this year. To know that the relationships that I have in Peru can exist for the children I played with in Botswana too. Even if it isn't me....God will provide.<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWzkrXuWVcqNTnhh_neVZyguY61OtoVHwL2I4pwWunW4isxZDIjFkp0LRx6dtEdesk_HneujuWuz3au2xm0pZgSbqmvCeHLZZQgo1fxrS_OInm2s1K2h-IPYXP7EwCHI1qpC9OjwlE11A/s1600-h/IMG_1450.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWzkrXuWVcqNTnhh_neVZyguY61OtoVHwL2I4pwWunW4isxZDIjFkp0LRx6dtEdesk_HneujuWuz3au2xm0pZgSbqmvCeHLZZQgo1fxrS_OInm2s1K2h-IPYXP7EwCHI1qpC9OjwlE11A/s200/IMG_1450.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426433126135318210" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >My return from the race has been far more difficult than I ever anticipated. I've felt more distant from the Lord and questioned more about my life in the last 5 weeks th</span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >an i did the entire year overseas. This made me a little nervous heading down to Iquitos. But all of the doubt, frustration, anxiety and loneliness that I've felt since I got home vanished as I played with my friends in Peru. The love of Christ wells up within me each time I'm down there and it allows me to recall His greatness. I feel Him every time that I invest in those children. It's beautiful and overwhelming. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >Returning from Peru was almost impossible. I thought my two best friends would have to carry me back onto the boat. The reunion I had waited for was too quick to end with no promise of a next time. But while the first few days were terrible, I’ve found myself on a steady foundation again. If anything, this year showed me that I can be joyful anywhere as my Heavenly Father goes before, with, and after me.<span style=""> </span>I’m not keen on thinking that I might not be called to the jungle full time, but I know without a doubt that I would make it. I’ll truly go wherever He calls, </span><span style=";font-family:Times;font-size:85%;" >trusting that His ways are better than my own.</span></div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-53156612083328757332009-11-12T16:05:00.000-08:002010-02-25T20:54:49.233-08:00.freedom festival.<div><u><strong><span style="font-size:14pt;"> FREEDOM FESTIVAL: 20 years of freedom</span></strong></u></div> <div>My new coat is soaked through. My hair mattes in a wet clump at my shoulders, and I'm really wishing I'd made a better shoe <img style="width: 291px; height: 218px;" alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/smilebrandenburg.jpg" align="right" />selection. Why did socks not seem like a wise decision in 35-degree weather? But as the crowds start to scatter and I exit the Berlin Subway, my eyes soak in the celebration and the focus on my own discomfort dissolves. I'm standing directly in front of the Brandenburg gate. It's illuminated beautifully and the square is so full of excitement that I know looking back on photos will never fully capture the experience. The smell of spiced wine and sausage overwhelms your senses, and as the primary-colored umbrellas trot along, they temporarily block your view from the various ages and nationalities flooding the square. It's the 20-year celebration of the Berlin wall coming down, and the enthusiasm is contagious.</div> <div> </div> <div>One woman in particular catches my eye. She's hunched over and shuffles through the crowds clutching an umbrella in one hand and her cane in the other. Periodically glancing at her son, she mumbles something in German and let's out a hearty laugh before wiping her brow with her sleeve and continuing on. Soon she'll find herself as wet as I am, but she doesn't seem to mind. I suspect this celebration represents something more personal and wonderful to her than I could ever imagine, and it doesn't appear as if she'll let a little cold and inconvenient rain get in her way. After all, she's walked through worse.</div> <div> </div> <div><img style="width: 225px; height: 168px;" alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/wet.jpg" align="left" />Men and women of all ages fill Pariser Platz and cause my mind to race in 100 different directions. My team of 10 has been in Berlin for 3 weeks now, trembling our way through holocaust museums, concentration camps, and paths where the Berlin Wall once stood, overwhelmed by the struggles that have plagued this country for so long. As we toured Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp, I couldn't help but wonder if I would have had the strength to endure such hardship. Regardless, I currently find myself surrounded by thousands of people who had family willing to endure and those who were willing to endure themselves.</div> <div> </div> <div>It makes me want to be a fighter. It makes me want to push through hardship with a smile on my face and a song in my heart just because I know that I serve the Most High God, The King of Kings, and the Alpha and Omega. It reminds me that sacrifice occurs with nothing in return. So, I sacrificed nothing to come on this journey. I just obeyed. It makes me see how hard certain people fought for freedom, and how much harder I should be pulling and praying for it considering this freedom is eternal.<br /></div> <div> </div> <div>So, as my mind shifts back to the festival, I watch the giant dominos begin to topple over. Cheers rise up from the crowd and I watch a country unified.<span> </span>I'm inspired by their willingness to laugh again. I'm challenged by their perseverance, and I'm grateful the young people recognize how blessed they are to have this day to celebrate. I pray I remember this moment and let it challenge me in the future. May it remind me of the beauty of freedom and how Christ alone releases the captives.</div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-30067554515716024602009-10-07T16:02:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:52:32.212-08:00.haunting history.<span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">I board the metro and shuffle my way to the back row. I'm nestled between a tiny babushka holding a bouquet of flowers, and a teenage boy who would never make it through a metal detector with the 53 spikes jetting through his face. How I love Ukrainian diversity...</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="font-family:Arial;"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/img_2485.jpg" align="right" height="200" width="300" /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div> <div> </div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It was a cold and rainy walk to the metro this morning. The stale alcohol and smoke-soaked clothing meet the damp air and could choke you if you inhale too deeply. I quickly find myself breathing through my mouth.</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> I never knew the smell of liquor could turn my stomach so much, but 3 weeks have about done me in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">It's every man for himself as you shove your way through the crowds, praying you'll file off of the metro before the</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> doors </span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">squish you. Before I hit the door though, a man three times my size stumbles into me, grins a golden smile, and the odor sweeping off of him is so pungent that I turn my head for fresh air. He mumbles something in Russian, uses me as a stabilizer, and trips off the train, slamming into one of the station's pillars. He leaves me there staring, battling between annoyance and compassion. Compassion wins out though and I can't help but wonder what has caused such hopelessness in him. <strong>What has become so difficult that he's decided life isn't worth walking through sober?</strong> I just can't imagine ever thinking things were so bad that I had to dissolve reality. Thank goodness...<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/p1030188.jpg" align="left" height="225" width="300" />At first, I thought men like my incoherent drunken friend were a rarity who only frequented t</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">he metro platforms and small train cabins. ((You know who I'm talking about...the sloppy drunkards that justify rubbing agains</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">t every woman they pass. Their stench sticking to your clothing.)) But then I noticed men and woman a like boarding public transportation with liters of beer in hand, downing swigs like it's coca-cola. No one seems to stare but my American teammates and myself. It's one of those culture shock moments that rattle me pretty regularly these days on the Race. Some more disturbing than others...but all upsetting. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">Watching these men stumble around the metro triggered another thought this month. Where did this all start? This addiction and abuse. A desire to wipe out truth. Then recalling the history I've learn throughout the walking tours of each city we visit, I'm clued into a possible explanation. I'm amazed to see how the haunting history of the countries we've been in, continue to permeate the nations <strong><em>current </em></strong>people and culture. The shame, control, and fear that have directed so much of Ukraine's past is evident in its people. No one smiles. Few are patient. It's cold. So, perhaps the drinking started to loosen them up? Or maybe it's just there to help them forget. Ukrainians will admit their country is learning to be happy, learning to dream, and learning to hope. Maybe the alcohol was a stumbling block placed to distract them from such </span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span><span style="font-family:Arial;"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/locks.jpg" align="right" height="225" width="300" /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family:Arial;">phenomenal discoveries.</span><span style="color: rgb(34, 0, 0);"><span></span></span></p> <div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Arial;">I've spent a lot of time praying for freedom from history's chains over the country of Ukraine. I can't help but pray similar prayers over my own country and its people. It makes me reflect on how American history haunts <em>us.</em> I mean</span><span style="font-family:Arial;"> we've been through a journey. We've battled for religious independence. We've battled for gender and racial equality. We were all under-estimated, robbed of freedom, and clawed our way to independence. I watch as Americans today still struggle daily for independence. They struggle to prove who they are and what they're capable of because they're so concerned with what other people think of them. <strong>But has our fight for independence warped into an inability to be submissive?</strong> Have we become too prideful in the fights others have won? Do we hate what is different in color, religion, or gender, even though America was suppose to be a melting pot of freedom? Hmm...Lord, we can't seem to ever get it right. Teach us.<o:p></o:p></span></div> <div><br /></div></span></span>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-53707647708429014282009-09-16T16:00:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:51:53.880-08:00.when i don't speak romanian.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9DImThNKSPUd7uqZi-U-n0LsGw6dCF66efxBY0idiIAzK8ovOSNDkcb0ov0QJXNmkzsGiszGCTf99Hz5ib0qprg5548Zg7ukyqdHxNcWllikincAXi2M_IUqUJs8REPQ8_lDNVDG4a4/s1600-h/IMG_1264.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho9DImThNKSPUd7uqZi-U-n0LsGw6dCF66efxBY0idiIAzK8ovOSNDkcb0ov0QJXNmkzsGiszGCTf99Hz5ib0qprg5548Zg7ukyqdHxNcWllikincAXi2M_IUqUJs8REPQ8_lDNVDG4a4/s200/IMG_1264.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424152497934186658" border="0" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Living in a small gypsy village settled amidst the rolling hills of Romania, I've had a job picking apples, charaded my way through conversation, and spent hours picking grapes off the vines that fill the village. Walking to my ministry location for the day, horse buggies clack down the street next to me as scarved gypsy women nod and blow kisses from their frequented benches. It's one of those moments where you shake your head, close your eyes, and are almost surprised to open them again and find that this small village is your present reality. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Welcome to Ville Tecii, Romania. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My team of 5 readjusts to our ninth month overseas, as we familiarize ourselves with gypsy lingo, the long drop and mixing cement. It's no longer a surprise that plumbing and warm showers are a luxury 2 months from our grasp, as we've grown accustomed to the "norm" everywhere else in the world. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Wading through the scent of honeysuckle and horse manure, I jump across an open sewage line, hold my breath, and grab a hold of the rusty fence outside the house I've frequented all week. Before my feet hit the dirt on the front walkway however, a 4 year old little boy graces the front steps. He screams my name and bolts towards me as fast as his little legs will carry him, leaping fearlessly into my arms. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I've grown accustomed to this warm greeting with my new Romanian friend.<span> </span>His name is<img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/img_2082.jpg" align="right" height="300" width="200" /> Feli and he's a 4-year-old gypsy who loves soccer, riding his bike, and playing with his 2 cousins. His 16-year-old brother and his brother's girlfriend seem to care for him while his mother works in the orchard all day. Food is scarce and the house is falling apart. I practically have to play hopscotch across their living room floor when I visit or I'll slide right through the gaping holes in the floorboards. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Feli and I spend hours together working on his bike, flipping through picture books, and playing soccer with all of his friends. We pick apples when its time for a snack and sit on the lumber in the soccer field when it's time for a break. Our time together is simple. We don't have detailed discussions about life, avoid each other because we can't communicate, or watch television to pass the time.<span> </span>We just play together. <span> </span>That's enough.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Traveling the world can be frustrating sometimes as you surround yourself with people of different nations, languages, and backgrounds. You want to know the people you're with, you want to know their story and details about their lives. When that communication barrier exists, its easy to just opt for a day with the Americans. It's easier, but choosing the easy road this year would have robbed me of so many precious relationships. I've loved so many people all around the world because I've trusted in the Lord to offer different venues of communication. <span> </span>He certainly has provided too. In Asia, it was hand signals. In Africa, I had smiles, and in Eastern Europe, laughter was all the conversation we needed.</p> <div class="MsoNormal">My communication with Feli might have been limited, but pushing through the barrier was well worth the relationship. No words were necessary, but laughter, hugs, and the Lord allowed an American woman to let a Romanian gypsy child know how special he was. </div> <div> </div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-68119042282861749942009-08-07T15:59:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:53:17.100-08:00.streetboy love.<div align="center">"Heal my heart and make it clean<br />Open up my eyes to the things unseen<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Show me how to love me like You have loved me.</span><br /><div><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Break my heart for what breaks Yours.</span></div> <div>Lord, everything I am for Your Kingdom's cause.</div> As I walk from earth into eternity..."<br /></div><br /><div>They line up against a wall smelling of earth and sweat. Their faces are streaked with dirt and scars, and glue dries in streams beneath their noses. They're hungry, broke, and filthy. They've probably stolen something from you, mumbled some crass remark when you avoided them, or sang you a jingle asking for cash. They'll tell you their story, but it's rarely the truth, and many of them have mastered manipulation even though they never passed the 7th grade.</div> <div> </div> They're the unlovable of Jo'burg. They make you hold your purse a little tighter when you walk through town, and they're a large part of the reason you avoid the city streets at night.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">They're street boys. </span><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckeeimg_7645.jpg" /> <div style="text-align: left;"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/img_7645.jpg" align="right" height="198" width="265" /></div><br /></div><br />For the last 2 weeks, Blair, Shannon, and I have been working alongside Melville Junction Church developing possible programs that serve the homeless men, women and children of Johannesburg, South Africa. In researching needs and ideas, I met Ricardo ‘n friends begging on the street corner between McDonald's and KFC. They're street boys who beg from sun up to sun down, and take a break in the afternoon to receive a cup of soup from us. We got looks from everyone coming in and out of the restaurant. They would just gawk at the 4 Americas chatting with the street boys. We were asked if we were naïve, scared or just plain crazy.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Crazy?</span> I'd think. <span style="font-style: italic;">For </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">talking</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> to a street boy?</span> At first, I was hurt by their misunderstanding, but as I thought back to who I was before Christ, I began to understand the looks. I knew I would have been the one munching on French fries and passing judgment 5 years ago...<br /><br />I remember hearing stories about the company that Christ kept when I first became a Christian. <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Lunatic,"</span> I thought. Who <span style="font-style: italic;">pursues</span> the prostitutes, beggars, and thieves? Aren't you taught to avoid people like that as a child? <span style="font-style: italic;">Great example, Jesus</span>. Why don't I run down to the red light district and have a quality chat with the lady on the corner of 3rd and Peachtree? I'm sure she won't mind me stepping between her and this month's rent. <span style="font-weight: bold;">And that thief over there? </span>I'm sure that he won't steal from <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> because I have a cross, a smile, and good intentions. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Wrong</span>. Thanks for the example, Jesus. I'll stick to my Birmingham circle. Much <span style="font-style: italic;">neater</span>. Much safer. Much more expected.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="text-decoration: underline; font-weight: bold;">But..</span>. But then I find <span style="font-weight: bold;">40 boys</span> in the Amazon jungle, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Hueso</span> in the Dominican, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Wesh</span> in Haiti, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Teekah</span> in Botswana, and now, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ricardo</span> in South<img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/img_7607.jpg" align="left" height="198" width="265" /> Africa. They're all the types of people that Christ would have loved, while onlookers shook their heads in confusion. And before I can stop myself, I am loving them too. Relationships like these teach you to love with Christ's eyes, as titles fall to the ground and nothing but laughter and love rise to the surface. It's when they become more to you than the orphan, the prostitute, and "some street kids." Instead, you're changed; when through Christ's power they become your friend, your brother, and your family. Christ molds you through these relationships. He challenges you to serve, pray, and love <span style="text-decoration: underline;">way past what is comfortable</span>. You love with no guarantee that the love will be reciprocated, and it doesn't deter you from loving harder. You're reminded that the Creator of the Universe adores YOU, and that's all the Love you need for fulfillment.<br /></div><br /><div> As I fast forward from my original opinion of Jesus' company, I can't help but laugh at how He has reinvented my opinions and heart. He is teaching me to love through His eyes so much more this year, and it's transforming my attitude towards just about everything. While I once believed Christ a lunatic for seeking out the unlovable, I now feel a divine calling to love them out of darkness. Befriending them no longer seems strange. We are loved so perfectly and abundantly by God, how could we not strive to pour that out on everyone we see?<br /></div> <div> <br /></div> <div>I pray that the Lord continues to open my eyes and "break our hearts" for what breaks His. It's scary at first. Maybe even a little risky, but the obedience and conviction to love <span style="font-style: italic;">never return void</span>. </div> <div>God is so good.</div> <div> </div> <div> </div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-71213997635632126622009-07-03T15:56:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:53:37.478-08:00.chilling winds.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHIgWB3Ndl4aagRFjrCU4hN91iXwTM1zD8qPvADtZjiAkWqpByv_qp9Pzi45ZpX_1OHZk3G-kC-anEmAiiRQTkSVJ07Q17TSFGkZQwhyphenhyphenkW48ULMxMqDiUJwLgpsjxz881D8tvCZDdTqw/s1600-h/IMG_7172.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTHIgWB3Ndl4aagRFjrCU4hN91iXwTM1zD8qPvADtZjiAkWqpByv_qp9Pzi45ZpX_1OHZk3G-kC-anEmAiiRQTkSVJ07Q17TSFGkZQwhyphenhyphenkW48ULMxMqDiUJwLgpsjxz881D8tvCZDdTqw/s320/IMG_7172.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424151558680720866" border="0" /></a>
<br />The wind from the Kalahari is strong, with the kind of strength and chill that demands your attention. It rips through the warmth of your clothing and ravages you in the night as you sleep. It's fierce, <em>quick</em>, and chilling. It <em>robs you </em>of warmth, disenabling you to think of anything but the cold. <strong>You're <em>blinded </em>by its bite</strong>. <div> </div> <div> So similar to the wind that haunts the village of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Moralane, Botswana</span> are the addictions, perversion, and hopelessness that paralyze this potentially beautiful village. Bling has traveled all over this year, but unanimously we agree that we've never seen sadness like we do in the people here. </div> <div> </div> <div> It was our <strong>first day</strong> and we were touring the village with our contact Khumbulani. We'd visited a few huts, greeted some families, and prayed for the sick. But music blared from a nearby hut and Khumbu asked if we wanted to <span style="font-style: italic;">see</span>....</div> <div> </div> <div> <span style="font-weight: bold;">TUCK SHOP</span> was painted across the top of a tiny hut in bold black letters, and <span style="font-style: italic;">as many people as I had seen in one place</span> stood huddled around this tiny yard, singing, dancing, and laughing. We crawled through the barbed wire fence, clipping pant legs along the way, and whispered a "Dumehlah" greeting to our yard of new friends. It took all of 15 seconds to know where we <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> were. Groups of women between the ages of 30 and 60 were stretched out before us with <span style="font-weight: bold;">huge white pitchers</span> overflowing in each hand. <span style="font-style: italic;">We all cast glances at one another and kept walking</span>. </div> <div> </div> <div>The women's elegant dance moves were now clumsy, their natural beauty masked, and their laughter <span style="font-style: italic;">deceitful</span>. Confident that I was staring at the <span style="font-weight: bold;">mothers</span> of the village, nausea swept over me. The stench of urine that surrounded them was stifling, and as they greeted us, the <span style="font-weight: bold;">pungency of their alcohol breath</span> made you believe that you'd get intoxicated just by close proximity. Invading my personal space, one mother loomed closer, whispered something in Tswana, gripped my hand and tried to make me imitate her provocative dance moves. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Sorry friend, my hips don't sway like that..."</span> With effort, I ripped my hand free and <span style="font-style: italic;">held my breath</span> as she turned around. <strong><span style="font-style: italic;">Nestled in the dip of her back</span> was a tiny </strong><span style="font-weight: bold;">baby boy</span>, gazing up at me in all of his naïve infant wonder. </div> <div align="center"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Oh Lord, can you really exist in a place like this one?" </span></div> <div style="text-align: left;"> <img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/img_7283.jpg" align="left" height="187" width="250" /></div> <div> </div> <div>Over the next few days, drunken women parading around the village became normal. They would stumble across the church grounds and whine about their misfortunes or come to our evening services and slur through praise songs. They'd call out to us for alcohol money or yell at us because we offered them no blankets. All the while, their neglected children stayed at the church ready for a game of volleyball. They played for hours; many from sunup till sundown, knowing that mom would <span style="font-weight: bold;">never come looking</span> or call them home for lunch.</div> <div> </div> <div>A battle of anger and compassion warred in my mind as I witnessed these drunken escapades and the toll their selfishness took on their families. My flesh wanted to <span style="font-style: italic;">scream at them</span> for being so negligent and for mocking the God I love. I wanted to rip those babies off their backs and assure them that Someone cared. I wanted to laugh with the other children until they knew there was more to life than the images their mothers' were painting. I wanted to serve those <span style="font-style: italic;">mothers</span> until they saw the <span style="font-weight: bold;">permanency </span>of Christ and the temporary satisfaction of alcohol. </div> <div> </div> <div>I <span style="font-style: italic;">wanted</span> to hate those women. <span style="font-style: italic;">Trust me</span>, <span style="font-weight: bold;">I tried</span>. But, I just couldn't...my heart broke for them and the Lord showed me throughout our entire stay that far too often I treat Him with the<span style="font-style: italic;"> same </span>disrespect as the women of that village. The only difference was <span style="font-style: italic;">I should know better. </span>
<br /></div> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I should have loved those women, instead of judging them. </span> </div> <div>
<br /></div> <div> Like that cold desert wind, sin <span style="font-style: italic;">creeps</span> into our lives and <span style="font-weight: bold;">paralyzes</span> our ability to follow Him. It slows us down, <span style="font-weight: bold;">redirects</span> our gaze, and <span style="font-weight: bold;">robs</span> us of His freedom. The young prostitutes, the drunkenness, and the corruption in this village, made it easy to pinpoint sin and scream out judgments, all the while feeling good that <span style="font-style: italic;">my sins</span> weren't quite so serious. <<<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Who did I think I WAS? Yikes. That is a whole other blog....</span>>> But, instead of loving them through the struggle and offering encouragement, I offered judgment and disgust, <span style="font-style: italic;">forgetting my mission</span>. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Not exactly how Jesus taught me to love my neighbor...</span></div> <div> </div> <div style="text-align: left;">So, as I conclude my stay here in Botswana with lessons learned, I'm broken for this village and the struggles that exist here. I ache for these children to be a generation that will unite families, conquer addictions, and silence hopelessness in the name of Christ. When I arrived, I struggled to see Christ existing in a place like this one...but as I sit in my tent, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">the wind is quieted </span>and I hear praises rising up from the other side of the village. We've been singing a song all week with the children, and now I hear it resonating from the huts of the village. Some of us start laughing, while others gratefully weep in our tents. </div> Truly, as the song goes:
<br /><div style="text-align: center;">"My God, You are so <span style="font-weight: bold;">BIG</span>. You are so <span style="font-weight: bold;">STRONG</span>, and You are so <span style="font-weight: bold;">MIGHTY</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">There is nothing you can't do. There is nothing you can't do</span>. You are the hope, living in me, you are the hero in me."
<br /><div> </div> <div style="text-align: center;">Keep singing little ones, and transform this village for Jesus. </div> </div> <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> <div align="center"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/p1010529_2.jpg" height="187" width="250" /></div> </span>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-24165268628469093952009-05-08T15:53:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:53:50.312-08:00.faith you can't fake.<p style="text-indent: 0.5in;" align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >For the third time this afternoon, I close the windows to my room hoping that I'll be able to drown out the sound of Muslim prayers echoing throughout the city. A deafening loudspeaker blasts them throughout all of Batam though, and it makes them nearly impossible to ignore. </span></p> <p style="text-indent: 0.5in;" align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >To be quite frank, it makes me a little queasy. </span></p> <p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >I find myself in a community where Muslims, Buddhists, and Christians roam the streets believing that their religion is something they're born into, instead of something they choose. As a result, many of them seem religious out of obligation. It's all about the rules. </span></p> <p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >At first I found that questions about my faith multiplied here as I was surrounded by so many people <em>determined</em> that their way is the right way. So, who is right? Am <strong><em>I </em></strong>right? <strong><em>Are they</em></strong>? There is <strong><em>only one right way</em></strong>, which makes the others wrong.</span></p> <p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >When I review the religions that I've encountered overseas, the contrast is drastic between those that believe because of love, and those that are religious out of obligation. The Christians I've met here in Indonesia are passionately in love with Christ and they don't check their Christianity at the doorstep when they finish their Sunday service. Their faith isn't an obligation or a game. It's not a drain on their weekend that prohibits them from sleeping in or something that steals away their fun. It's dangerous to believe what they do and even more so to walk it out. My friend Revelation was held at sword point <u>(Yes, I said <em>sword point.</em>)</u> just for mentioning Christ's name in a Muslim territory. </span></p> <div align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >The Christians here face heartaches I could never fathom, but they laugh through the circumstances because they know the God they serve is real. They read the Bible and do what it says simply because it brings them closer to the one they love, not because the rules say they need to. They are joyful and push through hardships because they know that they'll eventually come out on top. Pastor Johannes told us that when the bible school started, they had five packs of roman noodles for 30 male bible students. Regardless, they laughed their way through prayers, knowing God would provide. And provide He did...<br /><strong><u>That's faith you can't fake.</u></strong> </span></div> <p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >So, what does this mean for us? </span></p> <div align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >It means discipline, devotion, endless joy, and sacrifice. It means that we stop caring what the world wants because we don't serve the world. It means that when our culture tells us how normalcy and success are defined, that we throw out every definition because our Father has definitions all His own. It means that we might look crazy, and it means that we might be separated from <strong>those we love most</strong> because we want His will for our lives <em>so badly</em>. It means that we love our Father so much that it makes us <em>want</em> to obey His call.<br /><strong>It means we don't just believe, but we acknowledge our need for a Savior.</strong></span></div> <p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >Do all of these things strike us as appealing? No, not particularly...but we remember that He loves us unconditionally and it's all the motivation we need to continue. </span></p> <p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >The strength that I've found within me since I became a Christian has been nothing short of miraculous. I could have never generated such strength had I been relying on myself. It has been the Spirit of the Living God within me. This strength makes me confident in the reality and truth that is my faith in Jesus Christ. <em>Wow, I love Him</em>...and in each country I visit, despite the doubt that surrounds the people of these nations, I am sure <strong>now more than ever</strong> that Jesus Christ <strong>is</strong> the Son of God and the <strong><em>only way</em></strong> for any of us to be sanctified before the Lord God Almighty. </span></p> <div align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >Our world didn't come to be from an explosion. It was intimately <em>created</em> by the Alpha and Omega and saved again by His atoning sacrifice of a Son. Religion isn't a game that we play with in our spare time. We are here for a purpose, and it amazes me how Americans seem so blind to it. <strong>The rest of the world is quite aware.</strong> Life isn't about self-gratification and contentment. It's about falling madly in love with the Savior of the world, so that we can spend an eternity with Him in heaven.<br /><strong>That reason is why I'm on this trip...</strong> <div> </div> </span></div> <div align="center"><span style="color: rgb(23, 54, 93);font-family:'Arial','sans-serif';font-size:85%;" >I didn't leave all the comforts of home to sleep on dirty floors, snuggle with ants, and bathe from buckets <strong><u>out of boredom</u></strong>. I didn't sign up to travel the world, "World Race" style, and leave the people I love because I thought it would be an adventure or because I'm a nice person. I'm doing this because I'm madly in love with Jesus Christ and each day I'm assured of His sovereignty. I've got a desire to testify to the nations about His glory and I won't let something like cockroaches on the dinner table slow me down. </span> <div> </div> <div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 128);"><span style="font-size:85%;">This isn't just something I do because "christianity works for me." Jesus is IT and I wish we'd all be serving Him like He was.</span></div> </div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-87384295743387010512009-04-13T15:51:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:52:59.564-08:00.ladyboy sadness.I crawled onto the multi-colored bus blasting Thai karaoke, filled to the brim with Thai children. They poured into the aisles as the overhead lights went out and were replaced by strobe lights and disco balls. Eight hours of Thai karaoke was going to make for quite an interesting overnight ride to camp. <img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/IMG_1070.jpg" align="right" height="191" width="255" /><br /><div> </div> <div>Morning came and we were all exhausted from 8 hours of travel. We dragged ourselves off the bus at 5:45 am and collapsed on the nearby benches for further instructions. As I sat on the bench, <span style="font-weight: bold;">one little girl caught my eye</span>. Something in my spirit flared up and refused to be silenced. I looked away, but soon found myself staring at her again. <span style="font-style: italic;">What was wrong with me?</span> I grabbed my purse and ran to the bathroom, praying that my burden for this child was nothing more than exhaustion. </div> <div> </div> <div>I heard someone walking behind me and I turned to find <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span> staring at me from the other end of the bathroom hall: 10 bathroom doors, birds chirping, and the two of us staring. Awkward. Finally, she moved. She covered her mouth, in an unnatural but dainty fashion, giggled, and muttered "oh so beautiful girl..." as she walked past me into the restroom. It was at that moment that I was struck with the reason for my heightened sensitivity. This<span style="font-style: italic;"> little girl</span>, with barrettes, lip-gloss, and a cute pinstripe dress, had an abnormally low voice, and was in fact, a <span style="font-weight: bold;">little boy</span> in women's clothing. </div> <div> </div> <div>I just stared, uncomfortably, a lump forming in my throat from tears. I didn't know what to do. Here I was at a Christian Bible Camp, and one of our girl campers wasn't actually a girl. My heart ached...<span style="font-style: italic;">to be that confused about who you are</span>...</div> <div> </div> <div>He wore women's clothing, slept in the girls' dorm, and used the women's restroom. When he was called to the front during a youth event, the announcer asked him what his ideal "boyfriend" would be like. He answered confidently that <span style="font-style: italic;">he wanted </span>a handsome man with big eyes, and giggled into the microphone as the audience laughed with him. My stomach flipped as I saw how embraced and <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">entertained</span> this chosen lifestyle was in Thai culture. This little boy was being robbed of discovering who he really was in Christ. "Oh, but Kristen," I was told," he's not a boy, he's a ladyboy." <span style="font-style: italic;">Like <span style="font-weight: bold;">that</span> was supposed to make it all right?!?!</span></div> <div> </div> <div><span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">LADYBOY:</span> a term I've learned in the last month that unfortunately is a regular part of my vocabulary these days. A ladyboy is the <span style="font-weight: bold;">third gender</span> here in Thailand. You're a male, female, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">or</span> a ladyboy. ((<span style="font-style: italic;">Hmm, not so sure I recall reading THAT in Scripture...</span>))</div> <div> <span style="font-weight: bold;"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/dsc02832.jpg" align="right" height="225" width="300" /></span></div> <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">My frustration and response:</span> God is Sovereign and <span style="font-weight: bold;">makes no mistakes</span>. The justification that "<span style="font-style: italic;">I was supposed to be born a woman</span>," just doesn't cut it. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">No, you weren't</span> because God is perfect and made you intentionally. He made you <span style="font-style: italic;">fearfully and wonderfully</span>. He made you in <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline;">His image</span>. Don't strive to be someone else when you've been blessed with your own identity. <div style="text-align: left;"> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">After all, if we were created in His image, how could we be anything less than beautiful? </span></div> <div> </div> <div>My heart hurts that these boys are <span style="font-style: italic;">being encouraged</span> to live as women. They've been made a spectacle that aims to be what their culture tells them that they are, instead of sticking to what they were called to be. I'm not mad at these men. I'm infuriated that the enemy tries to tell them that they're anything less than God's children. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I see the effort that these "ladyboys" exude and the exhaustion that follows soon after.</span> They're trying so hard to portray one image, when in reality they're quite another, and at this point many of them are so confused they probably couldn't even tell you who they are. </div> <div> </div> Watching these "ladyboys" this month has rattled my cage of insecurity and revealed to me our many similarities. Every moment my confidence falters and I'm striving to please the world around me, it is a slap in the face to my Savior and an indirect claim that<strong> His work in me</strong> just <em>wasn't up to par</em>. <em>"Well, if only you'd made me a little taller Lord..."</em><br /><div> </div> <div align="center">If only I'd embrace the fact that any insecurity can melt beneath the satisfaction of knowing who I am in Christ, and that<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:14pt;"><span style="text-decoration: underline; font-weight: bold;">HE <span style="font-style: italic;">IS</span> MY IDENTITY</span>. </span></span> </div> <div> </div> <div align="center">I have struggled with insecurity my entire life. I've never felt pretty enough or TALL enough or thin enough or skilled enough...<br />I've spent embarrassing hours mulling over my "poor self" and wishing I was more.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><img alt="" src="http://kristenmckee.theworldrace.org/blogphotos/theworldrace/kristenmckee/dsc02785.jpg" align="left" height="286" width="215" /></span>I've behaved like a product of my culture, much like the ladyboys of Thailand<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">. </span></span></div> <div> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> But I say it's time for a change...God makes no mistakes and we are no exception to that truth. So, I'm choosing to walk in this truth like never before. I'm choosing to focus on the beauty in His creation, and not on the ways that my culture tells me I fall short.<br /></div> <div> </div> <div> </div> <div style="text-align: center;"> How I wish I could pour that truth in the ladyboys of Thailand...How I wish they could open their eyes to the realness of a God in heaven who has more for them then constantly striving to please and shock the world around them...<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">If only I could love them into being who they truly are and teach them to find their identity in Christ. </span><br /></div>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-85537190083730696852009-03-17T15:38:00.000-07:002010-02-25T20:54:01.688-08:00.survival in cambodia.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6wwFdv5vQxKigBtRTkxdnVjNPsuzP7smXsKvhEuHKqPkPqgW-uMcF-OZvBXcRs3fmedoYULLM5sucAoJoZEKnLjC7UW43HjMQw2OMtWfimeN4VOcimcjIq90X4Z4aBhrN2WsEmaWqFmc/s1600-h/DSC00365.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6wwFdv5vQxKigBtRTkxdnVjNPsuzP7smXsKvhEuHKqPkPqgW-uMcF-OZvBXcRs3fmedoYULLM5sucAoJoZEKnLjC7UW43HjMQw2OMtWfimeN4VOcimcjIq90X4Z4aBhrN2WsEmaWqFmc/s320/DSC00365.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424146703634228018" border="0" /></a><br />I didn't care for Asia. I never wanted to come. I came in obedience. I prayed to survive my experience here. BUT, the Lord demanded that I survive with compassion and sought to open my eyes. Time for silence, Kristen.<br /><br />We went on a tour of Phnom Penh today. A tour of a city whose most crucial and brutal history has occurred within the last 30 years. A city where very few people walk the streets over the age of 30 because those older generations were tortured, murdered, and scared from living within Cambodian borders.<br /><br />While the children of baby boomers began their own families, an entire generation was being wiped out of a small country in East Asia on the other side of the world.<br /><br />Khmer Rouge: a twisted communist group of evil men who were not disbanded until 1998. They brainwashed children and took advantage of uneducated ignorance. They promised power to the poor farmers if they would join forces with the Khmer Rouge. They promised the poor power over the rich. They promised revenge. They promised everything that contrasts with how Christ tells us to live. They tried to abolish religion. Communist leaders became your gods. Muslims were forced to eat pork. Christians were slaughtered. Buddhist temples were burned. Mercy was non-existent.<br /><br />The Khmer Rouge marched through villages and demanded that everyone abandon their homes, claiming that the United States was coming to bomb their cities. They were then guided to villages where families were separated, children from parents, husbands from wives, and from there<br />they were all placed in work fields. The only occupation available was to farm. No doctors. No teachers. Only farmers. You farmed without complaint or you were killed. Those were your choices. Modern day concentration camps at their finest.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRFNl7l4n9bIkEuXpQRlFQUpLo8NmOOp_gLAhVMbJnNhCJQdEB82eqIsDQPluS68Wa_xLddXXThXgTiFMLotgtZLeMUvdK4krCKWnLLViS7NhhTPRfhgXw-k90qsdMt-LXHmutakDO7Bo/s1600-h/IMG_7221.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRFNl7l4n9bIkEuXpQRlFQUpLo8NmOOp_gLAhVMbJnNhCJQdEB82eqIsDQPluS68Wa_xLddXXThXgTiFMLotgtZLeMUvdK4krCKWnLLViS7NhhTPRfhgXw-k90qsdMt-LXHmutakDO7Bo/s320/IMG_7221.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424147488023165090" border="0" /></a><br /><br />You farmed all day, surviving off of very little to no food with two black outfits that you rotated daily. You ate rice porridge that consisted of a little rice, a lot of water, and no protein. If you were sick, if you were dying, if you were disabled, you received nothing. You were considered an "unproductive parasite" and you were unworthy to have food wasted on you. So, basically? When you had the flu you sucked it up and worked so you were offered your water-rice porridge.<br /><br />Marriage: For the first 3 years of the communist regime, there was no marriage. Men and women were forbidden from speaking to one another privately. If you were caught, you received the death penalty; no questions asked. The 4th year, the communists finally decided that marriage would be permitted. When you had your wedding ceremony, you shared it with various other couples. Vows were not exchanged between a husband and a wife, but your "vows" consisted of a repetitious pledge of allegiance to the communist party.<br /><br />"I will go where the communist party tells me. I will do what the communist party tells me to do." Congratulations, you're married.<br /><br />Soon after your marriage, your "vows" would be tested, as men were shipped off to villages days away from their new brides. Brides never knew where their new husbands went. Husbands never knew if their wives were safe. You kept your mouth closed, ignored asking those burning questions, and swallowed your pride.<br /><br />"I learned about endurance. I learned the true meaning of humility. There was no room for pride in my life. You just wanted to survive. I thank God for the opportunity to live through that experience. It taught me to endure. I now know what it is to work hard. I am the man I am because of what the Lord taught me through that experience. I will endure with the Lord because I know how."<br /><br />Most of the information shared here, and the above quote, was from the pastor of the ministry where I am serving this month. His name is Pastor Keet. He and his wife Sally both survived the ruling of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. When the Vietnamese communists finally invaded Cambodia, Pastor Keet carried his family across the border one by one. He would place them in a bicycle basket and ride them to safety. They were placed in a Thai refugee camp. He said it was better because they didn't live in fear and received dry fish and rice. "So happy time," he says. Within two weeks of crossing the border into Thailand, Pastor Keet and Sally heard the gospel. They both accepted Christ within one week of each other and have returned to Cambodia to complete the task of ministry that God has set before them. It's difficult and sometimes overwhelming, but he knows about endurance and humility. He's a phenomenal man with an attitude that makes me tear up at my own pride.<br /><br />I hear these stories and it makes me angry at sin. It makes me hate the devil with a righteous rage. How could people be so cruel to one another? So many people were tortured and killed. Watch the movie "The killing fields." I stood in those fields. I saw the craters where bodies were piled. I saw the skulls stacked high to the ceiling as proof that thousands of men, women, and children were butchered. I stood in the old high-school where 20,000 Cambodians cycled through daily torture and starvation, and where 7 people walked out. I saw the playground turned torture chamber where monkey bars became a mans worst nightmare. I see all of these things and look at the dates when they happened. All those tortured share my parents' birthdays...<br /><br />Wow. I dare myself to complain about my life. I dare myself to complain about the heat. I dare myself to complain about my selection of clothing on the race. Lord, forgive me...When it is hot here, I won't say "Oh, I wish I had air-conditioning..." I will say I'm glad there are fans. When I'm tired of wearing the same clothes over and over again, I will thank the Lord that I have more than one shirt to cover my back. When I cry because I miss my family and friends. I will thank God that I know there are people back home who love me and miss me. I will thank God that he only asked for 11 months away so that I could learn more about Him and His children around the world.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>I've seen poverty, I've seen starvation, I've seen illness....But I've also seen God provide, comfort, and CONQUER IT ALL. He is so much bigger than our American culture allows us to believe. If these people can be thankful for all the blessings they've received...surely this "poor" world traveler can learn to be grateful for hers too.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGvqT4kLmkvQkl39t_a31dxnH1q_EQfazJB-LWRHDrqhOIwC6BMsoX9UoIMe6PdBDbSMX2wUbg9wAps0UqvsI5ULTy0lw-1w4iYx5TVSimCmPkc8-80s5KRp7AhccRXxo_J6cCVJ7Urk/s1600-h/IMG_6114.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGvqT4kLmkvQkl39t_a31dxnH1q_EQfazJB-LWRHDrqhOIwC6BMsoX9UoIMe6PdBDbSMX2wUbg9wAps0UqvsI5ULTy0lw-1w4iYx5TVSimCmPkc8-80s5KRp7AhccRXxo_J6cCVJ7Urk/s320/IMG_6114.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424147657037851042" border="0" /></a>Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7595757779787591044.post-28984683361944595512009-02-10T15:33:00.000-08:002010-02-25T20:52:15.783-08:00.haitian hospitals.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CDpuwk5MGCJH1LhC9k1H9f_t2W2GZeQqv7YD5svfyUZGpCG-GzD35RVr39WGWL0L1Z4PRvcNOM7hGBiqD-l5JgjsUmeFAsIeen5pkVveTyTaFjGeCjdyObe-oF4l4dpFXtEIlB8Je3w/s1600-h/IMG_0542.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CDpuwk5MGCJH1LhC9k1H9f_t2W2GZeQqv7YD5svfyUZGpCG-GzD35RVr39WGWL0L1Z4PRvcNOM7hGBiqD-l5JgjsUmeFAsIeen5pkVveTyTaFjGeCjdyObe-oF4l4dpFXtEIlB8Je3w/s320/IMG_0542.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424145976273548130" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"We're going to the hospital..." </span><br />When Pastor Joelle said that, I think I panicked. What was I going to do in a hospital?<br /><br />I don't talk to strangers. I don't do funky smells. I don't do needles and I really don't do bodily fluids. Sick.<br /><br />Convinced this was some kind of joke, I was waiting for the other option available to our group. None came.<br /><br />As we walked into this tiny Haitian hospital, the first thing I noticed were droplets of fresh blood in a puddle beneath a chair in the waiting room. The second was a young man wrapped in urine-stained bandages and tears streaming down his cheeks. The third was a 3-year-old child whose face appeared to be melting off from an apparent burn.<br /><br />Mounds of people were crammed into tiny rooms with hardly any supplies or nurses. Family members crowded around most beds wiping away flies and sweat. The smell was heavy, the walkways were small, and there was no privacy despite obvious pain.<br /><br />The overwhelming sense of death and hopelessness was suffocating.<br /><br />I felt helpless. I just wanted to heal them. I wanted to take their pain away. I wanted to give them hope when I didn't even know what was wrong. I wanted to kill every fly that crawled across their skin, wipe away their sweat, and sing them all back to health.<br />I didn't know what to say to these people and I definitely didn't speak Creole. Waiting for further instruction, I watched my scuffling feet and stared at the ground.<br /><br />Finally, Pastor Joelle found his way inside and with a smile said, "Go ahead to start. Do. You know."<br /><br />"No, sir. I don't know and I'm going to need you to clarify."<br /><br />My pessimism fortunately wasn't verbalized and I could feel the Lord shake His head at my attitude. It wasn't that I didn't know what to do ...I just didn't want to do it.<br /><br />As a representative of the Lord, I needed to put aside my discomfort and offer some kind of relief to the hurting people in that room.<br /><br />Before I chickened out, I grabbed one of the translators and headed towards another room of the hospital. Just then a blood-curdling scream ripped through the entire hospital. Everyone froze. I closed by eyes and did my best to shake it off. Death. I knew that scream meant death. Urgency shot up within me as I practically dragged our translator to the next room.<br /><br />We walked around to different beds offering prayer, and I was surprised at how many people were receptive and willing to have us pray for them. I noticed one woman lying alone on the other side of the room and knew I needed to go to her.<br /><br />As I knelt down next to her, I felt the need to sing. I wanted to groan in disapproval, but knew that arguing with the Holy Spirit wasn't going to get me very far. So I sucked it up and asked her if I could sing her a song. I closed my eyes through the first verse, almost afraid of what her reaction would be. She just looked mean with a seemingly permanent scowl etched into her face. But when I opened my eyes during the chorus, she was lying there with her hand over her heart just swaying to the music. Her eyes were closed and she obviously had forgotten about her situation, at least for a brief second.<br /><br />Relief and purpose swept over my entire body.<br /><br />Why do we question Him? Why do we feel the prompting of His Spirit and try to balance it with logic before we act? I was too afraid of what people might say to me if I walked up to their bed and they weren't interested in what I had to offer. Why did it matter? Wasn't that one woman's comfort worth rejection from the rest?<br /><br />Service in locations like Haiti helps to remind me if how much really exists outside of me and my life, outside of Birmingham, outside of the United States...There are too many people hurting, in need of hope, for me to be pouting or focusing on me and my discomfort. I hope I can continue to find ways to get uncomfortable for Him everyday and to remember that it really isn't about me.Kristenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11771889735769541543noreply@blogger.com0