dance

the tears of the oppressed

It’s after ten o’clock. It’s been dark since six, the hour when gray fades to black in Western Michigan, one of the few disadvantages of being a Great Lake state.

The teller at the bank apologized this afternoon for the three-minute wait; my mind flashed back to the streets of Zim, where lines of people wait hours for drought-ridden ATMs, hoping to find fools’ gold at the end of a proverbial rainbow.

It was Christmas two days ago, the peak of abundant consumerism in the West, and yet another stinging reminder of catastrophic devastation in most places. The banks in Zim were closed on Christmas; people couldn’t get money to give gifts to friends and family.

The hand-crafted African gifts I brought back for my family were a hit this year; the replacement razors coupled with the black dress socks stuffed in my stocking could’ve covered the entire bill.

Driving deserted Michigan freeways last night, I listened to Ecclesiastes, trying to sort through all this imbalance. Throughout, the teacher exclaims a desperate, “Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless!,” while the parallels of the powerful hoarding wealth and resources over the powerless are strangely poetic in this melancholy, strange book.

Again I looked and saw all the oppression that was taking place under the sun:
I saw the tears of the oppressed—
and they have no comforter;
power was on the side of their oppressors—
and they have no comforter.

And I declared that the dead,
who had already died,
are happier than the living,
who are still alive.

But better than both
is he who has not yet been,
who has not seen the evil
that is done under the sun.

And I saw that all labor and all achievement spring from man's envy of his neighbor. This too is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

The king doesn't give a happy prognosis, though he doesn't share the conclusion of the matter. When I first returned from the trip, a friend who visited Zim sent me to Isaiah 58, where God says:

"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?

Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?

Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.

Then you will call, and the LORD will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.
"If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,

and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.

The LORD will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.

Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

"If you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath
and from doing as you please on my holy day,
if you call the Sabbath a delight
and the LORD's holy day honorable,
and if you honor it by not going your own way
and not doing as you please or speaking idle words,

then you will find your joy in the LORD,
and I will cause you to ride on the heights of the land
and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob."
The mouth of the LORD has spoken.

And it all started to make a little more sense, because I’ve seen the Joy through the tears of the oppressed.

on the back of a diesel wrecker

I’m on the back of a diesel wrecker, watching people and this African city pass by.

Women walk with heavy bags of grain balanced on their heads while children play in the dirt. A string of tractors and trucks wait in a “fuel queue,” a lengthy line to pay for overpriced gas with currency that’s essentially useless.

And the only thing I can think of is Jesus.

How Jesus used to roam through the streets, crowds watching His every move, eyes locked on Him. If they managed to touch His robe, they were healed. Even if they didn’t touch Him—if they just believed—they were healed.

It’s an amazing picture, God walking the streets.

quote from pedzy

“God will bless you guys to overflowing for taking the time out to travel miles upon miles to come and edify the church In Zim. You guys are such an encouragement to me and the other guys. I get to see the reality of the Gospel. Only God can make it possible for us guys to meet. If He didn't exist, I'm pretty sure you guys wouldn't have come. We all have Christ as our common denominator and that's enough for me to know. I see past our races, cultures and traditions, and like Paul, I can echo that Christ is all and is in all working through us all.” –Pedzy in Chinoyi

snowy sunday

The white remnants of a snowy weekend fill the streets, and it's winter—a sharp turn from Zim, a land of hot temperatures and almost daily rainfall this time of year. I sit by candlelight and think again of the country where electricity is luxury.

Christmas is on our doorstep, and the approaching holiday wasn’t a reality days ago until we landed in D.C., where twenty-five glowing Christmas trees and ads at every turn reminded us of a bearded chimney dropper who brings gifts to children and eats an enormous stash of cookies, instead of the birth of the world’s Savior. I remember asking the guys about Christmas in Zim—it doesn’t exist like it does here—there is nothing to consume, let alone indulge in.

But the people celebrate Christ daily, for He is their everything.

At church tonight we held a giant feast instead of a service, all eating more than we should. I left early, still feeling jet-lagged and overwhelmed and frustrated there isn’t more I could tell people. I’m still digesting.

A week ago, we went to the “Christmas party” at the Alaska Feeding Centre in Zim, where an incredible woman named Annie started to feed and teach rural children, and now takes care of nearly seventy.

At that party, there weren’t tables full of exotic food choices. There was Sudza, a thick, salty Cream of Wheat type concoction that is keeping the country alive, and meat, a rare Christmas special.

Yesterday, I visited the local grocery store and left without buying food. It’s been over three days, and I still haven’t had to buy groceries. I’ve been well fed by friends, and I know I can go to the store and buy whatever I need, whenever I want. With even the dry food in my cupboard and freezer, I could eat well for weeks.

Jeremy and Julie went to Zim nine months ago had me over for breakfast this morning. We talked about our experiences and the potential and difficulties and perspectives of what we can take away, changes we can make, what believers can learn from each other. I found it equally frustrating and exciting, like white water rafting on the Zambezi was both terrifying and a great adventure.

An African brother sent me a series of strange text messages with pleas to text him back, but I can't text. He wants desperately to be friends, and I failed to connect with him while I was there. It made my heart sink, like I’ve fallen short as a “missionary.”

There are so many needs, and no way to fill them all.

Everyone knows people are starving around the world, but we often overlook the spiritual riches many facing difficulties or oppression possess. I’m still trying to find the words or medium to express the worship habits of these people.

Our amazement with their worship atmosphere is not an emotional response, or a heightened sensitivity to a different language and culture; it’s much more than mere music and singing and dancing.

Worship for these people is a lifestyle, a choice made daily, despite seemingly insurmountable odds, to “take up their cross and follow Him” to “offer their bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God.”

Their lives are spiritual acts of worship.

we are home

We are home. God is sovereign and good. We are safe, healthy, and spiritually alive. Thank you for your prayers and support, exciting things are afoot.

Much has transpired over the past two weeks, it's difficult to know where to begin, which stories to tell, and what to keep in the mind’s queue until the picture becomes clearer.

During a three-hour Saturday night worship and dance session under a thatched roof at the youth retreat, I found myself alone in a field accompanied by great white stars and a reasonable fear of snakes, asking God what I can do, feeling overwhelmed and lamenting how I cannot solve all these problems.

In the background, young people were worshiping and dancing before the LORD in a way I’ve never seen. My mind recorded a beautiful sound I pray I never forget—a powerful chorus of Zimbabwean youth singing, “Oh, oh, oh, let it rise.” For me, it was a bridge linking Heaven to earth.

David danced
Undignified before the LORD

And these people shake
With unshakable souls

Living sacrifices
As the glory of the LORD
Rises among us
From the inner courts

The LORD is pleased
With broken and contrite hearts

Each has a story
And each tells it well
With wide smiles
Revealing the joy of the LORD

These people are much more alive than many of us. They may not have food, but they are filled with the bread Jesus said, “I have bread you know nothing of.” These people have been reduced to nothing in the eyes of this world, but have everything waiting in the next. It was a time filled with love, with the Spirit, with truth, with the movement of God.

I'll skip to the end, with selections from last night’s journal.

Somewhere Over Africa

The sun is setting in the sky and on this trip—blazing in pink, with yellows and oranges and blues exploding from its dissolving center. We are returning to the world of emails, cell phones, blogs, televisions, jobs, worldly pressures, after two weeks among some of the world’s greatest people.

Perspective is an interesting concept. In America’s economy, I am poor, but in Zim life, I am a rich man of perceived power. Africa has given me deeper perspective, but there is much more to see. Each life experience adds another chapter to our living stories, each glimpse of God in the air or cliffs or sea strengthens our trust in our Maker, the Creative One.

People are beautiful creatures, and one part I love about traveling internationally is seeing the image of God expressed more fully in our diversity. The African people are beautiful. I think of Issac, a kind bellhop of 19 years at Victoria Falls, or Costa, who would give everything he has for a chance to set foot in South Africa to start over, or Pedzy, a young Godly man with a heart overflowing for orphans, or Stella, who makes wonderful sweet rolls and sacrifices daily so others may prosper.

This trip was about relationships. Perhaps it is only the beginning.

As we fly into the night, my notebook is full of ideas about what to do with what I've seen here—not necessarily requiring dramatic fashion, like commercials showing starving children or politically fueled statements, but I’ve accepted a certain responsibility to report what I’ve seen. I will certainly relive this trip again in writing, in photos, in video, perhaps in person. I cannot forget this place.

The growing tally I’ve crafted of Zimbabwe’s major problems is at fifteen, and this is still a macro list, consisting of serious items like poverty and power outages, political unrest and AIDS orphans, food shortages and widespread unemployment.

We can’t do everything, but we must do something.

The night before we left for the trip I was flipping through a book a publisher donated to the country, the author was writing about her experience in Africa, how it changed her. I wonder how this trip will change me. I pray for discernment and grace to tell these stories the way they should be told, in Spirit and in truth, for we were witnesses to great truths during our time there.

It is one thing to go and see, but another to go and do.

Going to Africa is the cool, hip humanitarian thing to do in the States today; many are involved and doing great works, from Bono to Meijer. This is good, but we must glorify God first and foremost. Money and service and love are all matters of aligning our hearts with the work of God. On the outside we can appear to be doing the right thing, but our hearts have to be invested; not our egos or self-interest.

There is a great temptation to want to play the hero, to trumpet good deeds, to clang our offerings loud enough for the whole world to hear, but that is not the heart of God. Jesus exhorted us to pray in secret, to keep our right hand from knowing our left hand’s charity. He praised the poor woman who gave two coins and turned the tables of marketers fashioning His temple into a den of robbers.

He taught how the first will be last, how the poor are rich in spirit, the meek will inherit the earth, encouraged us to give ourselves (and our stuff) away to following Him in building a Kingdom where nothing passes away, where the car doesn’t rust and the insects don’t ravage our clothes, where value is found in God’s riches in Heaven, where one day, we’ll sing a new song.

As Switchfoot put it, we live in an economy of mercy, an upside-down Kingdom full of the unexpected, where life comes out of death and truth takes root in us like trees along a riverbank. It is the narrow path, the wellspring of life, the hidden meaning in parables the elite religious thinkers couldn’t crack.

It is the sight for the blind, ears for the deaf, and legs for the lame. It is life and love and the fulfillment of the law, it is reflections of Heaven on earth, and it is peace that passes all understanding. It is fulfilling and sustaining, joyful in affliction, patient in suffering, fervent in hope. It is the path to knowledge, the possession of truth, assurance of salvation, the protection of angels and guardians.

It is forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of our bodies, reconciliation to God and to others, where everyone is a child, everyone belongs.

It is life in the Spirit, communion with the Creator and fellowship with other believers. It is living in the world but rooted in another. It is returning the love that He first ravished on us.

There is no other way to fully live. It is beautiful.

zimbabwe itinerary

Last night, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, nearly everyone at church walked to the front to share what we were thankful for over the past year. After sharing, each person lit a candle, and slowly, no artificial light was needed. The room was glowing.

I immediately flipped to the Gospels in Matthew 6, where Jesus talked about the birds of the air and the lilies of the field; how God knows and supplies our needs. I’ve experienced the deep truth of Jesus’ words in these Scriptures, and again, with this trip to Zimbabwe, God has used his people to provide in amazing ways.

I am so thankful for God’s provision and the people He’s placed in my life.

A simple thank you falls desperately short, but it is sincere. Your prayers and financial support for this trip are greatly appreciated; it would’ve been impossible without you. Below is the itinerary for the trip; please continue to pray for our team that God would accomplish his work through us.

Vital Connections Zimbabwe Ministry Team Itinerary

11/28: Depart Grand Rapids with team of six.

11/29: Arrive at Harare around 9 p.m. to be met by Simon Smith. Staying at Meikles Hotel.

11/30: Drive to Chinhoyi early—Youth Conference at Hunnington Retreat Centre starts in the afternoon.

11/30 – 12/2: Youth conference with 100 young leaders ages 18-25 expected.

12/3: The Calling team rests and fellowships with local leaders and prepares for upcoming ministry. Kentwood Community Church Global Outreach team arrives in Harare-met by Aspher Madziyire.

12/4: The Calling team meets up with GO Team in Harare and departs for Chivhu to lead Children’s Outreach Program, conduct evening services and see feeding program.

12/5: Total KCC team together in Chinhoyi for fellowship and preparation for weekend.

12/6: Children’s outreach at Alaska feeding center and Good Shepherd Orphanage.

12/7 - 12/8: Church leaders conference at St. Peters retreat center with Craig and Teresa speaking.

12/8: KCC GO Team departs for home.

12/9: The Calling team ministers at local Chinhoyi services.

12/10: The Calling team departs Harare for Victoria Falls holiday, while Craig returns to U.S.

12/13: The Calling team arrives in Grand Rapids!

Dear God, I Am Scared

“Dear God, I am scared.”

These are the words exiting my mouth as I jog around the corner near the Catholic grade school, where swarms of bundled up kids await a string of station wagons and SUVs, like mini-celebrities waiting for their chauffeur parents.

I remember times when life was simpler, when perfecting the multiplication tables was the biggest event of third grade, when baseball cards were turned into rumbling motors on rubber bike tires, when summer vacation came every year.

“Dear God, meet me here.”

In the movie Stranger Than Fiction, Will Ferrell plays Harold Crick, an IRS tax agent whose life is narrated by a novelist who always kills her characters. Crick wonders if he’s starring in a tragedy or a comedy.

If it’s a tragedy, he dies. If it’s a comedy, he falls in love.

Three months ago I sat on a beach with change all around me, wondering what just happened to my life. Days later I signed up to go to Zimbabwe, and now, today, nine days remain before lift off.

And change still surrounds me. The unknown is on my doorstep.

Like Crick, I wonder aloud what all this is about. Not necessarily life or death, or comedy or tragedy, but the greater meaning behind what lies ahead. But I guess we have to move forward in order to look back.

In God’s own words, “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.”

Thank God He hears us. I have no reason to be scared.

lunch with a widow

There are people who amaze me; my parents top the list.

Early yesterday morning, at 3:15 a.m., they got dressed and started driving. 475 miles later, they were eating lunch with Florence, an elderly woman who used to attend their former church. She moved to the land of the trolls; I imagine she is lonely.

My parents promised they would visit Florence in the fall, and yesterday was the only day it was possible. After visiting with her for a few hours, they got back in their vehicle and drove 475 miles back, arriving home at 10:22 p.m.

Florence was my first employer; I used to cut her grass in the summer and shovel her sidewalk in the winter. She has been widowed as long as I can remember, and my parents still care for her, nearly 500 miles away. Florence has already made arrangements for my father to officiate her funeral; it is important to her.

And my parents, deeply rooted in church and tradition, are living the perfect religion James wrote about: “Pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father is this: to visit orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.” (James 1:27)

Most wouldn’t drive 1,000 miles to have lunch with a widow. But my parents would.

home run

jogging through the park on this day
(aka-ed as devil’s night)
toward a tree the color of hot coals

i pass through the baseball field
and kick up some dust
for old times sake

i remember little league
me; the little guy
five-foot-one at age sixteen
but even smaller then

yet speedy on my tip toes
accurate from the mound
doubles: my forte
second base: my ground

but on that day
the bases were loaded
dad in the stands

the pitcher throws
the batter swings
the bat dings

i scurry the bases
like speedy gonzalez
inside the park

grand slam

i arrive safely at home plate
my giant of a coach scoops me up
the crowd goes wild

and the feeling is electric

redeemed (song lyrics)

part one: tunnel park

october on the beach
with my favorite things
God and guitar
Word and Spirit
books drenched in ink

within seconds the wind
erases evidence of my existence
footprints in sand; gone

the waves sing a chorus
first stirred in the deep
while the city sleeps
waiting for winter

but i come here to breathe

to sing
to lament
to dream

about upcoming continents
with confidence
that He is in control

like my brother once asked:
“how do you make sense”
of all this?

birth
and
fall
and
death

then birth again
into a new creation
where wheat and weed
from the same seed

begin

yet in different places

end

part two: adventure

men on skateboards with no wheels
riding the lake with a kite
seeking michigan’s adventure
and finding it

a jet soars in front of my eyes
dancing the line of land and sea
seeking michigan’s adventure
and finding it

like a castaway with everything i need
i rest among the dunes
seeking michigan’s adventure
and finding it

part three: beauty

beauty is found here
in all forms
seeping into callused fingers
calcifying in restless bones

stretching our imagination
blowing up our boxes
we create to put life in order
to keep God

where we want Him
how we want Him
when we want Him

but the where and how and when
are exposed like plastic men
when we remember

He transcends place and form and time
an omnipresent, omnipotent Creator
who loves and loves and loves

but control in the hands of fallen men
is like a child behind the wheel
with no way to reach the pedals

part four: california (a song)

Heard a lot about California
But I’ve never really been there
Except the time in my mother’s belly
On the beach in the winter air

Wonder if things would be much different
If we moved to the West Coast
But I didn’t really want to leave then
Miss the things that I loved the most

Guess I probably would’ve found a wife
Bought a house, moved in and made some kids
But I guess life’s not the way it was
I guess life’s the way it is

And I learned it’s not where you’re at
But who you’re with
The people you love
And the time you give

To rejoice and to mourn
Through blessing and scorn
Through the seasons that we all live

Cause life’s not about how much you get
Life’s about how much you give

part five: dreams

dreams, like footprints
can be swept away; forgotten

remember
look ahead
eyes closed
listen
to the One
who made this lake so great

bradley hathaway

Last night Dan and I went downtown and saw Bradley Hathaway (www.myspace.com/bradleyhathaway), a poet/musician who tours the world doing spoken word poetry following hard core rock shows.

We felt like elderly giants in a sea of teens, a completely different experience.

We talked to Bradley—he had only been writing for a year before going on tour (he’s now in his fourth year), and picked up a guitar a year ago. He’s just going for it.

His band assembled 12 days ago—a drummer, bassist/guitarist, cellist/stand up base/accordion player and Bradley on acoustic. Dan said he was born for the stage—he’s captured a vision combining different elements to create something special.

After three rounds of screaming hardcore bands, he had teens swaying back and forth to blue-grass music with spoken word poetry. To see him reel in the crowd in was amazing.

His lyrics are often light, but he hits kids’ hearts with truth they need to hear.

the gift of food

My father and I share the gift of oven preparation alertness.

What I mean by this is that something woven deep in our intuitive mind-body clocks alerts us when the oven is ready. For some reason, it doesn’t work as well when the food is done, only the pre-heat. This fuels my distaste for burnt frozen pizzas. Weird.

My father punches in times like 3:37 to cook popcorn in the microwave. He’s like a microwave scientist.

Today I celebrated successfully opening the croissant roll container. Last time was a violent disaster that harmed the ascetic value of the rolls. Thankfully, I had two containers this time, so when I ripped the directions off container #1, I went back and read them on #2. They were delicious.

Now I know the secret of the rolls. Dad would be proud.

I called last year, “the year of Hamburger Helper without the hamburger,” and perhaps this year will be, “victory over croissant rolls.”

verse.chorus.verse.

gimme a song i don’t wanna sing softly
gimme a song i can scream

‘cause i’m tired of feeling like i need more coffee
gimme some light on this dream

and someday i’ll sing you
(softly to sleep)

and someday you’ll wake me
(to live this dream)

and together we’ll sing of
(this great mystery)

‘cause it’s here in my lonesome i long for another
heard being alone was no good

and i know what it’s like to be chasing the stars
but i long for your heart like i should

the gr press

The Grand Rapids Press reviewed The Yesterdog Documentary in Friday's paper.

Check it out on mlive...

the sound of violence

2:07 a.m.

My eyes fight the brightness of a computer screen at this hour.

An angry man stirred up our neighborhood twenty minutes ago with a sea of obscenities. In this part of the city, it’s not unusual for late-night revelers to make their post-bar presence known, but this was altogether different.

This wasn’t innocent fun.

This went beyond anger.

This was rage.

This was the sound of violence.

“F__ you! F__ you! Get in the f__ing car!” a man screams. A woman responds, the argument volleys back and forth like a tennis match. She says she doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. “Is that what you want to see?” the man yells.

Car doors slam like bullets. My heart beats, chest frozen in time.

Propping open the shade through the corner of my second story window, I struggle to see the root of the confrontation. I make out silhouettes and human movement under the street lights, maybe a white shirt.

Trees obscure my vision; leaves rustle in the fall wind. Earlier, the speaker at our community gathering spoke about reconciliation. Amy mentioned it was a perfect fall night.

I listen, almost like I’m waiting for gunfire. A car pulls up and stops. “Get the f__ off me!” Sounds of a scuffle. More yelling. The girl yells something. The man fires off more obscenities. The car moves; headlights fade down the street into the night.

I’m praying for peace. Should I call the police?

911 remains only three numbers away, but this man is too filled with rage to be met by police, I reason, imagining cops showing up and endless rounds expelled until someone on this street winds up dead.

The prayers continue. God, give this situation peace. Give this madman clarity.

An SUV creeps down the one way. Open car door. Closed car door. Then silence.

The prayers for peace and reconciliation continue.

2:33 a.m.

knock

When worry caves in, release.
When needs feel unmet, ask.
When hope appears lost, hope.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.”

Knock.

“Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!”

And receive.

get this book

I just finished leftovers from last night's Sami's Gyro, a huge undertaking of Greek goodness.

At the table, I was re-reading parts of Cam's new memoir, The Year I Got Everything I Wanted: A Spiritual Crisis. It's a loose parallel of Ecclesiastes, how a year filled with promises (new job/city/girlfriend) ultimately couldn't fulfill.

Cam landed me the internship and pointed me toward the community that jump started life for me here. We started meeting at Sami's during the summer of 2004, while both of us were in the midst of personal crisis of one kind or another. He has become a boss turned mentor turned friend. Last summer, he invited me to Europe--the book is a journey leading up to his decision--which proved to be a life-changing experience for both of us.

Cam is a gifted, honest writer well worth your time; check out his blog and pick up his book.

Our Global God: The Journey to Africa

In November of last year I met Ted, a white-haired man in his mid-eighties who used to live at the elderly home we visit each month. Ted was in WWII, stationed in Germany as a machine gunner. A fellow soldier was shot in battle, falling into his arms, but Ted “kept him quiet” until the firestorm stopped, then hauled him to the back lines, saving his life.

“I never knew who he was, but he lived,” Ted said. [Rescue.]

Ted told me the story of how his pastor gave him a verse before he went overseas. During our Christmas visit, I followed Ted to his room where he flipped through his Bible. His WWII verse was Psalm 91:7. “A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.”

Ted made it out of WWII without even a scratch. [Protection.]

Last spring, I wrote a worship song about Ted’s experience entitled “Rescue,” based on Psalm 91. During a Tuesday night church community gathering, where we were sending a team of nine missionaries to Zimbabwe, we played the song for the first time.

Afterwards, Craig, our American missionary leader who has established Vital Connections, a long-standing ministry in Zimbabwe with his wife Teresa, thought to himself, “That song is for Africa.” A friend asked for the chords and lyrics, and days later, I recorded a rough demo and sent it with the team on an iPod to Zimbabwe.

When the team returned, they reported great news about their experience, including how “Rescue” had taken on a life of its own during worship in Africa, how it had ministered to the people of Zimbabwe.

It continues to this day, and Simon, a worship leader in Zimbabwe, hopes to have it published. [God.]

Zimbabwe is facing an incredible crisis. Once one of Africa’s most profitable countries with stable crops and economy, a series of events have turned it into one of the world’s poorest nations. With the world’s highest inflation rate, a mounting AIDS crisis, unthinkable unemployment rates, malnutrition and food shortages, the country is in desperate need of rescue.

Following a series of unusual, ordained appointments, I’ve decided to join a missionary team of six headed to Zimbabwe in November 2007. We will spend our two weeks leading a youth conference to equip young Christian leaders, visiting a children’s ministry, working and worshiping alongside Zimbabwe Christians to further the Kingdom of God and share the love of Christ. [Unity.]

In the spring, I had an idea about creating a documentary on the world’s churches. Though this may not be part of that larger picture, one of my primary roles on the Zimbabwe team will be taking video and digital cameras to document the experience of Zimbabwe’s Christians. Though, inevitably, this experience will change and challenge us on the team, it is about unity in the Body of Christ: beyond cultural barriers, beyond rich and poor, beyond black and white. [Reconciliation.]

Over the past year, I’ve had the privilege of being self-employed, running a video production company and freelance writing. I’m confident all of this is connected; both with the freedom of a flexible schedule, as well as the ability to document this journey. Part of my calling is “to live and tell stories,” realizing this story has already spread over three continents. I’m confident God will use the humble efforts of people working in art and media to further expand His Kingdom. [Jehovah Jireh.]

The global Christian church has awakened to the great needs in Africa, and we are all part of that movement. “The body is a unit, though it is made up of many parts; and though all its parts are many, they form one body. So it is with Christ.” (1 Corinthians 12:12)

The trip will take place from November 28, 2007 to December 13, 2007, concluding with a two-day stay at Victoria Falls, one of the Seven Great Wonders of the World.

I’ve experienced God’s provision in amazing ways over the past 18 months, challenging me, humbling me, and opening my eyes to the greatness of our God. I look forward to this journey with eager anticipation of God’s continued movement.

If you’re interested in helping through prayer or tax-deductible donations, please email me (aaroncarriere [at] gmail.com). Thank you for your prayers and support, words fall short to express my gratitude. Please call or email, or follow the journey (though communication during the trip may be limited) on the blog.

In the grace of God,

-Aaron

Prayer Requests for Zimbabwe:

• Rising up and strengthening of Zimbabwe leaders and the African church.
• Relief from AIDs, inflation and poverty.
• Global unity in the Body of Christ.
• Eternal impact for all involved.
• Effective planning on trip’s short notice.
• Safety and protection for the missions team.
• God’s continued movement through new media.

light

God is so good to us, even when we're not good to Him. At times I find myself slipping back toward the misconceptions of the Jesus of my youth, where performance was kin to godliness, where burden and yoke were heavy. But our God is light.

switchfoot: the economy of mercy

There's just two ways to lose yourself in this life
And neither way is safe
In my dreams I see visions of the future
But today we have today
And where will I find You?

In the economy of mercy
I am a poor and begging man
In the currency of Grace
Is where my song begins
In the colors of Your goodness
In the scars that mark Your skin

In the currency of Grace
Is where my song begins

These carbon shells
These fragile dusty frames
House canvases of souls
We are bruised and broken masterpieces
But we did not paint ourselves
And where will I find You?

Where was I when the world was made?
Where was I?

I'm lost without You here
Yes, I'm lost without You near me
I'm lost without You here
You knew my name when the world was made

missing ted

The old folk’s home was missing Ted tonight. He finally convinced his daughter he was capable of living on his own, and went home. After meeting Ted ten months ago, I wrote that he didn't belong there. His brother had been living at the home, but he passed away this winter.

Over the past year, we witnessed Ted lose a few steps and forget a little easier, and I'm not sure he should be on his own.

But I sense he's happier at home, where Kathy says he can work on carpentry projects and stay busy. Ted has become more than a man we met with every month, the stories he shared with us about his life have traveled continents, a catalyst to a greater story.

So, without Ted answering his cell phone call from his daughter, which happened every night like clockwork, we screeched out hymns as usual with the veterans: Dave, Lois and Hazel. I value the deep lyrics and reverence of old hymns, but the keys are largely inaccessible with wide vocal ranges. It creates an interesting mix for the ears.

That's when Korn turns to me and says, "Is this in the key of dog pitch?"

And I almost died laughing. Fighting back tears. Then Lois called Korn and I turkeys. But she smiled and said that life is about enjoying it; she's enjoyed every minute of hers.

Ted is enjoying his. And we should enjoy ours.

balance

For the second week in a row, I find myself at the coffee house around the corner. Last week I spilled my guts on the keyboard, and it came out like this:

I work from home. Sometimes I’m at home and I don’t work. When I hit these times, I need to get out.

So I find myself at a coffee shop, though it’s too late in the day for caffeine. I wear a wrist brace; a friend said recently that our dedication to our craft(s) will cost us something physically.

But sometimes I’m not dedicated, I’m just wasting time and it looks like work.

I’m so tired of sitting in front of this computer.

Maybe that’s why I’m at the coffee shop.

Because I want to see other people.

Sometimes if you work in your own house and do your own thing, you start to think that the world is about you, even though you know it’s not. It’s hard not to get trapped in that kind of narcissism.

So I’m here in search of new ideas.

When an idea person runs of ideas, they find themselves at a coffee shop, wondering what everyone else does. There’s a girl wearing a purple dress working on a MacBook. I bet she does something creative like graphic design. There’s a dude wearing medical scrubs, and I bet he saves people’s lives. An old man across from me underlines notes in a thick book, while a beautiful looking girl sits across the table from her gray-haired grandfather, talking and smiling. I don't know what they do, but they are enjoying themselves.

Now this morning, at this same coffee shop, I have to fill out a survey for a business thing I'm doing, and it's all about me. What I think my strengths and weaknesses are, what sort of goals I want to set. Then an expert will evaluate me and give me various life pointers. The survey even says this: "Have a Balanced Life Which Works Well: Because You Designed It Selfishly."

Yikes. Welcome to America. Home of the ____.

(another) shameless plug

www.YesterdogDocumentary.com

where lyrics come from

When I read the Psalms, I often don't identify with the words. The war imagery, the persecution, the seemingly endless lists of enemies, the troubles of the time I don't encounter.

At other times, it's like I wrote them myself.

Words harness the great power to build up or tear down. "From the same mouth come both blessing and cursing. My brethren, these things ought not to be this way," James 3:10 warns us.

We all identify with those words.

And I find the lyrics come alive at the strongest times, of desperation, of elevation, in midnight hours and restless mornings. I even go to sleep, and when I wake, the lyrics are still there.

Finally, I pick up the instrument, and it's like it plays itself.

The words fit, matching the melody.

It's another Psalm for another day.

whistle (or smoke) while you work

Life has been less-than-funny over the past few weeks. But right now, perched at my computer in my home-office, I sit here with a smile.

Our lawn guy is smoking while cutting the grass. He's really efficient, both at smoking and lawn care. A cigarette dangles in his mouth, one hand periodically removes it for an oxygen break; the other steadily guides the grass machine. For him, it seems like all is well with the world. It’s like whistling while you work.

And for some odd reason, this makes me laugh.

Even though I know smoking is bad.

mistakes

in an imperfect world, we often fail. we make mistakes. they always affect others.

it can be as simple as a type-o, or as complex as damaging a lifelong relationship.

as much as we'd like to, we can't always fix what's been done.

all we can mutter is “i'm sorry,” and do our best to help pick up the pieces.

mosquitoes (let me sleep)

4:25 a.m.

lights on.

light buzzing.

“mosquitoes.”

three of them.

two of them.

one of them.

none of them.

4:52 a.m.

lights out.

lie in our graves

"Thus men will lie on their backs, talking about the fall of man, and never make an effort to get up." --Henry David Thoreau

lois (she plays piano)

in a room filled with laughing youth
she plays the electric keys

she offers songs to the Lord
written on the tablet of her heart

wrinkled hands dance along imitation ivories
yet move softly in a symphony of grace

she learned first as a child
her father by her side

but in old age the sage
nears perfection, completion

she remembers the golden years
while the rock of ages

clefts for us

three prayers

My old church used to sing the Doxology before meals at potlucks and Bible camps:

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Today, God blessed us, and the Doxology immediately stormed my mind.

The rhythm and melody and habit of the Doxology had replaced any deeper meaning with visions of pig roasts, but when I revisited it today, I rediscovered a wonderful poem, a verse in a larger hymn, part of yet a greater Psalm.

Our family had another prayer we were forced to say before meals:

Come, Lord Jesus;
Be our guest;
May these gifts to us be blessed;
In Jesus name,
Amen.

When it was our respective turns, my brother and I would speed through the prayer and blur the last two stanzas to create something that sounded like, “Engeeezusnameamen.” You could hardly blink. It was over. Our faces were stuffed.

I guess it was fitting, since we were never really grateful for our food anyways.

It was always on the table. My father once traveled to India on a mission trip for a month, and I remember him sending faxes back home and talking to him on the phone about how someone killed a rattlesnake or cobra in their motel kitchen. I think he has video of it somewhere. Snakes were exciting. Hearing him talk about how he was going to ship us to India for our ungratefulness wasn’t.

He once fasted for 40 days, just like Jesus.

And he never complained. He never does. We didn’t understand why Dad was only drinking soup and getting skinny. I remember the first time he ate again; watching him like a hawk as he ate barely a morsel, getting sick shortly after digesting solid food again. I recently heard or read about how the angels ministered to Jesus in the desert, and I’m sure angels ministered to my Dad in the same way.

As children, before we would go to sleep, my Grandmother would pray with us:

As I lay me down to sleep;
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I die before I wake;
I pray the Lord my soul to take;

I used to say this prayer just in case I croaked during the night.

I wondered what would happened if I forgot to say it, if I’d miss out on Heaven. Sometimes, while riding on family road trips late at night listening to oldies or Dad’s classical music, I worried if we were in a sudden accident, if I’d be able to squeak out enough “I’m sorry for my sins” to God in time to slip safely past St. Pete.

These prayers, representing blessings, food, rest and salvation, were often confusing as a child, yet a childlike faith is exactly what Jesus calls us toward. It is good to reflect, to find the meaning in what was once meaningless.

my day as the freak show

Today we conducted an experiment. We became amateur social scientists.

I’ve been enjoying a week-long vacation since Sunday morning outside of Tampa, and we found ourselves at Busch Gardens riding rowdy roller coasters and doing our best to dodge the chaotic post-holiday traffic.

During the afternoon rush hour, we were stalled in endless lines, the park bursting at max capacity with high school kids and young families and children and diverse tourist groups from around the world. As we strolled past a face painting stand, someone asked Steve what it would take to get Spiderman pasted on his face.

We turned around. The conversation started. Bidding was high. Testosterone flowed.

Recognizing an opportunity to compensate for steep ticket prices, I offered my own services, and for the next two minutes, Steve and I bid like serious stock traders on various face paints intended for children. In the end, I came out on top, bidding $12.99 plus expenses over his $13 bottom line to have my face morphed and walk the rest of the day in the park.

Saddling up on a round bar stool, eye closed, the artist began to apply mounds of green paint to my grill. And more green. And more still. “Do people in their mid twenties ever do this?” I asked her. “Yes.” I was relieved. Moments later, my face had been transformed into a human lizard snake, complete with white fangs and scales.

And we were off, laughing at the oddities of it all. I crept into the bushes and pretended to climb on the side of a fake bamboo fence. Photos were snapped. People stared. I stared back. They grinned. I smiled. They looked away. I looked away. They were confused. I was confused.

Steve let me borrow his book Blink by Malcom Gladwell to read on the beach.

It’s about the first two seconds of decision making, human instinct, intuition and “thin slicing,” the power to make quick decisions more rapidly than sorting through mounds of analytical data. There’s an interesting section about people’s facial expressions, how our faces often speak exactly what we’re feeling inside. Only the trained can hide from exposing what they’re feeling.

Making a point to be attentive, I watched people’s faces closely, making eye contact as much as possible with as many onlookers as I could. Periodically, I would forget I looked like a green snake lizard, but for most of the afternoon, it was the only matter on my mind. I wondered what people thought about me. We all do.

I had become the freak show. In the end, I was left only with an instinctual analysis (judgment) with absolutely no scientific basis, only a collection of what I saw.

Little boys loved it, though some were frightened and buried their faces into their mothers’ laps. Little girls gave mixed reaction. Teenage girls giggled. Teenage boys probably thought about doing it themselves. The elderly saw the folly of a seemingly attention-starved young man. Middle-aged men were either envious or disgusted, I couldn’t tell—probably both. Mother’s worried about their children. Young couples were armed with a new conversation. The roller coaster operator was impressed, saying, “I love when adults do that.”

Two people took pictures, saying, “That’s really cool. Are you the Incredible Hulk?” I told them not to post the photos on the Internet. The MC who boarded people like cattle onto the shuttle made a scene in front of a couple hundred people in line: “Look at the guy with the green face, that thing is scary, stay away from me!”

Everyone stared. I smiled, clenched my fingers like a claw and raised it into the air.

A family next to us in line said they loved the bamboo bit. A young blonde boy across from me on the shuttle couldn’t keep his eyes off my face. A woman in the Pizza Hut lobby afterwards (yes, payday required more public shame) told me jokingly, “Stay where you are.” Her son came out of the restroom. “Are you scared of that man?” she asked him. He stared, absorbed the sight, then bolted toward a stack of 25 cent candy machines.

The green snake lizard experiment was impromptu and fun, yet I experienced what it’s like to be really different, to be the odd one out. This is not the first time I’ve felt like this, nor will it be the last. We came across thousands of people, and nearly all of them saw me, but none of them looked like me. We all are different.

I am not a snake lizard. I am not dangerous. I am not an experiment. I am still human.

independence day: volume II

It was one year ago today.

I boarded a plane and flew across the sea, boldly declaring a sense of “independence” and freedom I longed for, a weighty risk worth taking. As I reflect on the incredible events between then and now, my mind is filled with a great paradox.

I am dependent: on God, on family, on friends, on strangers.

It has been a year lived in extremes: pride and brokenness, plenty and want, victory and defeat, laughter and tears, wisdom and folly, blessing and curse, rest and unrest.

It has been a year fully lived, and perhaps that is what I was really chasing. As I look toward the future with great anticipation, the vision has evolved, from “independence” to “interdependence.”

And I am grateful that the year has taught me one of life’s greatest lessons.

rain king

The morning has brought heavy, steady rain.

At 8 o'clock, I sat in stillness on the front porch, resting in an old, white rusty chair, watching the rain batter the streets. When granted a moment's reprieve, I ran inside, first downstairs then up, lassoing a full bag of trash, dropping it on the corner.

The storm has darkened the house where no one else is home. Anchored in the dining room, it feels as if I'm working by candlelight, yet surrounded by paperwork and books and bright computer screens and coffee cups and boxes containing drums.

Three candles sit unused in the center of the table.

Lightening struck moments ago, but it couldn't rival last week's 5:31 a.m. thunderous wake up call, when the sounds of the storm sprung my sleeping body upright 90 degrees, like it was raising me from the dead.

I try my best to work while listening to Ray LaMontagne and the Counting Crows, because they seem to understand the rain better than the others. I think of a flood-like rain during my youth, which filled the outer rims of the parsonage parking lot, my brother and I nearly swimming in pools of muddy water.

In the photo, you can still see it in our faces; there was no other place we'd rather be.