My Journey Thus Far…

When I consider where all I have been, the many fellow sojourners and kindred souls that have walked various lengths of the road with me, and the tremendous life lessons I have learned…I cannot help but be overwhelmed and grateful. I could write a novel about names, places, and faces that bring such a smile to my heart.

But I also lay down at night. And in my heart I hear the haunting, yet powerful chorus of We Speak to Nations (sung by the anointed Judy Jacobs)—“Hear the sound, the sound of the nations calling. Hear the sound, the sound of the fatherless crying—who will go for us? Who will shout to the corners of the earth that Christ is King?” I also see the names, places, and faces that make me pray, weep, and remember.

I am reading an amazing book right now called A Sacred Sorrow by Michael Card. In the foreword, Eugene Peterson writes, “For at least one reason why people are uncomfortable with tears and the sight of suffering is that it is a blasphemous assault on their precariously maintained American spirituality of the pursuit of happiness. They want to avoid evidence that things are not right with the world as it is—without Jesus, without love, without faith, without sacrifice. It is a lot easier to keep the American faith if they don’t have to look into the face of suffering, if they don’t have to listen to the laments, if they don’t have to deal with the tears.”

I have tried to “go home” many times now. It doesn’t work. I can’t “un-see” the things I have seen, or escape the fact that I carry with me the many pictures of pain and suffering all around the globe—yet also deeply feel the undercurrent of beauty and hope and redemption, like a flower springing forth on a desert cactus. I have abandoned the worthless and fleeting pursuit of happiness. That is an American treadmill that takes you nowhere. No, I cannot deny that the real pursuit is love—of God and others. Amazingly enough, when you pursue that love—then, and only then, do you actually find joy eternal.

I still have dreams for my life. But in my dreams, I also remember…

1.) My first mission trip to San Antonio. Where the children would be locked out of their homes, to “play” in the scorching Texas heat, until their parents returned from work…or if at all. Where I saw the body of a homeless man on the sidewalk, lifeless from lack of food and water in the summer. Yet, where a couple lived in the apartment complex, caring for the children along with their own. And where a young black girl gave her only pair of shoes to a younger Hispanic girl, because she said that she didn’t want her friend to get blisters.

2.) My next trip to Los Angeles. Where we daily worked with the amazing staff of the Dream Center, who rescued kids from gangs (even if it meant formally adopting them), fed the 100,000+ homeless people in the eight city-block area called Skid Row (even if it meant skipping their own dinner), and pulled people from lives of drugs and prostitution (even if those people stumbled again and again). Yet, where they had to put bars and gates around the church, because of constant opposition and attempted drive-by shootings.

3.) My first overseas trip to Romania, where we saw thousands of acres of abandoned vineyards, now left fruitless after the fall of Communism and the lack of financial support from other countries in the aftermath. Yet, where they still give thanks for their freedom—weeping for the martyrs who ministered from the mountains at night time. Where I met pastors who walked to 7 churches on a given Sunday, to preach and collect enough offering to feed their own families. Where we visited a city with an 86% unemployment rate. Where women wept when we gave them simple potato peelers, because it made dinner prep easier.

4.) My time in China, where I couldn’t speak openly about my faith and church gatherings, as it may mean deportation. Where babies didn’t cry in the orphanage, because they gave up on being held when they did. Where I met men and women who walked with limps from beatings they endured for being a Christian. Where my teacher was drug through the streets during the Cultural Revolution because he was “caught” studying English and therefore labeled a traitor. Yet, where the Church is adding to their numbers daily, because pastors are still faithful to preach the gospel.

5.) My recent trip to Kenya. Where the elder of an IDP camp (Internally Displaced People) said that the most difficult time is night time—because screams ring out from tents, when the people dream about the atrocities they faced in losing their families and friends. Where I saw wounds of children thrown back inside burning churches, when they tried to escape. Where mothers with disabled children were rejected by families for keeping their baby and labeled accursed…Yet, where the ministry of Comfort the Children now provides these mothers jobs and child care. Where CURE provides medical care for the children. Where Naomi’s Village will open soon, to care for the orphans. Where they dance and sing and made me feel like the poor one, because they are emotionally strong and spiritually rich.

Sometimes, when I close my eyes at night, I cry out, “I still see you! I still see you! And I will not forget you.” And I pray that I never go back to the place where I only look in the mirror and see my life alone. This is my journey thus far…