Today I missed Bellingham…

Today I missed Bellingham...so I dressed like this: I felt like a true Bellinghamer—ready to strap my guitar to my back and head down to Boulevard Park to sing songs and write environmental poetry while eating Mallards ice cream, kicking my Chacos off, and letting my hair fly freely in the wind.

I miss you Bellingham! Thanks for four wonderful years!

More importantly, I miss all of my wonderful friends, old roommates, professors, campus pastors, and even acquaintances in Bellingham—a unique city brimming with one-of-a-kind people.

I don’t think I quite realized just how high my Bellingham friends had “set the bar” upon moving down here. I will be entirely honest; it is difficult to full-heartedly embrace change when your mind still wants to live in another environment. Mentally living in Bellingham is an easy thing to do—even now. I love it that quirky and charming city and I care deeply for my friends there. But lately I have seen the great need to ask the Lord to transform my mind into the here-and-now of Lake Oswego. This is my new home. This is where the Lord has called me and placed me for the time being. And, undoubtedly, this city is also overflowing with fantastic individuals that I have yet to meet (and some that I already have). It is inevitable that digging my roots down deep must happen.

I, of course, have no projection of how long I could be in this still-new Lake Oswego. Maybe a year—maybe more or less. Often the idea of uprooting and leaving hinders me from wanting to put any roots down at all. But the Lord has been showing me I have no choice. Wherever He brings me—even if just for a week—planting roots deep into people and relationships and letting others mutually invest in me is what He desires. Would you please pray for me as continue to do this in my new environment? Although I’ve been here nearly three months, it still isn’t easy…

What is most important is that Jesus is with me. And anywhere I go, He promises to stay, send His Spirit, reside beside me, support me, speak to me, commission me and instruct me on how to serve others.

Matthew 28:18-20
“God authorized and commanded me to commission you: Go out and train everyone you meet, far and near, in this way of life, marking them by baptism in the threefold name: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Then instruct them in the practice of all I have commanded you. I'll be with you as you do this, day after day after day, right up to the end of the age."
-Jesus (The Message)

Sometimes we just need a hearty dose of laughter...

I was feeling overdue for a good laugh last week. It was a busier week than usual at work (with the boss out of town there was more to do), and I came home Wednesday night feeling exhausted, burn-out, and slightly irritated. They had power washed the building I work in that day. From 8 am until I left at 4:30 pm, it sounded like I was trapped in a saw mill as I listened to the rumbling blasts of the power hose spraying the building. Sometimes when I hear loud, reverberating and monotonous sounds –like vacuums, blow dryers, and in this case—power washers—I like to try to make my voice harmonize with the buzzing sounds. So, at the end of the day once everyone had left the office, I found myself singing scales around the hum of the power washer. It was great…until I got really into it and began fantasizing about being on some operatic stage, lost all inhibitions and really went for the high note…then in walked Edwin, the Fed-ex man.

Shoot.

Edwin laughed in the doorway, hands on his knees, for about 45 seconds (which feels a lot longer than it sounds when someone is actually blatantly laughing in your face). I think the reason Edwin was laughing so hard was because this wasn’t the first time he has walked in on me pretending I was a Broadway star. With the emergence of the recent Hairspray the Musical hype (it being in movie theaters now), I of course was pretending I was Tracy Turnblad in the middle of the opening song “Good Morning, Baltimore!” when Edwin delivered a parcel early last week. Shoot (again). Or, shoot me, rather.

Embarrassing as both incidents were (especially because I was caught in the act by the same person and he probably has some label for me now and mocks me at the dinner table with his wife and kids), it was good to have a laugh.

And after the American Idol power washing incident, the laughs continued Wednesday night…

I came home (burnt-out as I mentioned before) and started making dinner. Making dinner has never been a chore to me. It actually is one of the greatest stress-relievers, in my mind. I love all the chopping involved—who needs to squeeze a stress ball when you can whack at heads of lettuce with a chef’s knife? So there I was, fixing the perfect meal, putting the final touch on the salad—caramelized walnuts. I took a deep sigh as I scattered the last handful of walnuts on the top of the salad, grabbed a bottle of Pinot Noir and put all the dishes on the table. I have to admit, after such a long day at work, I was feeling proud. Like Julia Child, only younger (and alive), and without a weird voice that sounds like a robotic frog (sorry Julia…rest in peace). I was happy to be home with Abuelo and Cynthia and excited to sit down, chat, and eat a peaceful meal.

Right when I told Abuelo, “Dinner’s ready!”, he of course got up and left the room. “Excuse me while I make a short visit”, he said. It wasn’t until a month after I moved in that I realized this was just a polite way of saying “I have to use the bathroom—be right back.” Before, it was always hard for me to understand why he wanted to go visit people right when dinner was piping hot on the table. Now I understand, but I still can’t figure out why he sees the need to wait to use the bathroom until the second I announce that dinner is ready.

After Abuelo returned from his “short visit”, the three of us sat down at the table, gave thanks, and started eating. Dinner conversation was interesting that night as Abuelo voluntarily shared that my father was conceived on the boat to Brazil on his honeymoon. “So…my dad was born only a year after you were married?” I asked. “No Abbie! Nine months…I counted”, he replied as he started laughing in that lovable, wheezy, old man way. The laughter quickly turned in to an awkward choke/laughter, then Abuelo’s eyes bulged out a bit and he made a face that looked like he had swallowed a hula hoop. “Ummm…are you ok, Abuelo?” Cynthia asked just before Abuelo started puckering his lips, eventually spitting a small object onto the dinner table. “Is that a walnut?” I asked. Abuelo murmured, “no…I think that’s a tooth.” Cynthia and I started laughing till our cheeks hurt. “I have a funny feeling it’s not my tooth, though”, Abuelo said. I don’t know how the man could make excuses like that when the tooth had obviously just been spit right out of his own mouth.

A half-an-hour or so passed and Cynthia and I were cleaning the kitchen when Abuelo came in with a cheesy grin on his face, missing the most obvious tooth in his mouth—front and center. “In case you were still wondering, I think I found out whose tooth that was” he said. We just all stood there laughing—a perfect ending to the day.

"A cheerful heart is good medicine". Proverbs 17:22

In Every Little Thing

I have had endless conversations this week about the Holy Spirit's presence in the minute details of our life. His dwelling in every moment and little circumstance. His interaction on every level of our lives--from big picture moments (like visiting with Pastor Moses Paulose from India on Monday) to specific "in-the-moment" moments (like the desperation of Friday evening--a night of not one, but two flat tires).

I am starting to see more and more that the purpose of my life is not so much about going, doing, discipling, and filling my time with ministry, ministry, ministry. No, the purpose of my life is simply to know God. To truly know Him, hear Him, speak with Him--to be made aware that in every little moment, decision, and thought, His Spirit is with me.

I found this word from Oswald Chambers quite provocative in that respect:

The Concept of Divine Control

". . . how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!"
Matthew 7:11

Jesus is laying down the rules of conduct in this passage for those people who have His Spirit. He urges us to keep our minds filled with the concept of God’s control over everything, which means that a disciple must maintain an attitude of perfect trust and an eagerness to ask and to seek.

Fill your mind with the thought that God is there. And once your mind is truly filled with that thought, when you experience difficulties it will be as easy as breathing for you to remember, "My heavenly Father knows all about this!" This will be no effort at all, but will be a natural thing for you when difficulties and uncertainties arise. Before you formed this concept of divine control so powerfully in your mind, you used to go from person to person seeking help, but now you go to God about it. Jesus is laying down the rules of conduct for those people who have His Spirit, and it works on the following principle: God is my Father, He loves me, and I will never think of anything that He will forget, so why should I worry?

Jesus said there are times when God cannot lift the darkness from you, but you should trust Him. At times God will appear like an unkind friend, but He is not; He will appear like an unnatural father, but He is not; He will appear like an unjust judge, but He is not. Keep the thought that the mind of God is behind all things strong and growing. Not even the smallest detail of life happens unless God’s will is behind it. Therefore, you can rest in perfect confidence in Him. Prayer is not only asking, but is an attitude of the mind which produces the atmosphere in which asking is perfectly natural. "Ask, and it will be given to you . . ." (Matthew 7:7 ).

Fear and Trembling

It is ten o-clock and the late evening sky is still dimly lit with hues of blue and grey. A rush of clouds is filtering through my backyard—twisting and splitting, moving too fast for a windless summer night. Every ten seconds or so the trembling rumble of thunder reverberates on every side, leaving a clangorous resonance that is almost eerie. Repeatedly, a spontaneous punch of lighting will illuminate the entire yard, coming and going like an irregular heartbeat. Each time the lightning revisits, it is like a spotlight, highlighting the immeasurable space beyond it—the overwhelming amount of stars that have no sign of ending.

I sit here, my back just barely against the fence, my body still wet from swimming in the lake hours ago.

I am cold.

Something about this abnormal thunder-and-lightning storm and the chilling feeling of my wet hair and goose bumps is making me feel so very small.

So small.

There it goes again. The bruising sound of thunder. I wrap a towel around my arms and upper body, but it is damp and bringing little comfort. Something out here is keeping me from going inside.

God is here.

This afternoon my friend, Christie, told me that a few nights ago she had an experience that helped her understand a bit more of what it means to fear the Lord with trembling. She was alone, just after night set in. As she walked to the edge of a wooden dock, she could see the two hills in the distance rising on either side of her. They cast a deep, dark reflection on the water in front of her. It was an almost frightening sight. All day she had been quoting scripture about the fear of the Lord, repeatedly asking God, “What is it to fear you? What does that look like? I want to know what it is to fear you.” There as she stood on the dock, she understood. She was drawn closer in to the mystery of the overwhelming sight—the beauty of the dark hills was what she described as “terrifying”. But as she reservedly scooted nearer to the water, overwhelmed with the presence of God in that place, her legs began to shake uncontrollably. All she could do was weep. Head cast down in a powerful moment of fright and humility, she knew she had to walk the other direction. She had tasted a bit of God’s mightiness and strength—too great to lay eyes upon…too far beyond her ability to comprehend.

Christie’s story is reverberating in my mind.

Psalm 18:7-19

He parted the heavens and came down;

dark clouds were under his feet.

He mounted the cherubim and flew;

he soared on the wings of the wind.

He made darkness his covering, his canopy around him—

the dark rain clouds of the sky.

Out of the brightness of his presence clouds advanced,

with hailstones and bolts of lightning.

The LORD thundered from heaven;

the voice of the Most High resounded.

He shot his arrows and scattered the enemies,

great bolts of lightning and routed them.

The valleys of the sea were exposed

and the foundations of the earth laid bare

at your rebuke, O LORD,

at the blast of breath from your nostrils.

He reached down from on high and took hold of me;

he drew me out of deep waters.

I want to know what it is to fear the Lord. I want fear the Lord with trembling. I want to be filled with reverence and awe. I want to tremble with fear at the thought of ever displeasing him. I want to know all that He is… and all that I am not in His presence.
In this moment He is so great and I am still so small. Each reverberating sound of a thunderous blow reminds me that in a moment He could crush me. Yet He spares me. He meets with me. The very God that could destroy me with one stroke of his mighty hand uses that hand to “reach down from on high and take hold of me” (vs.9).

All of a sudden it is raining. Five days of scorching weather and now a spontaneous rain. The drops are pelting all around me. Where moments ago I was wet, now everything around me is wet. Covered.

I think I have had a small glimpse…

I close my eyes...

….and see them standing. A blur of figures sweeping over perpendicular bridges that cross the river—Hawthorne, Morrison, Burnside, and Steel—each bridge is brimming with bodies. Lines and huddles, a jumbled mass of youthful faces. Nomads. Each of them waiting to enter the city. Crowding the scaffolding like pebbles stacked high on a bed of toothpicks or twigs—almost ready to snap. The bridges are bending with the weight of young wanderers. No reason, no calling—just a yearning within them to flock where other Nomads walk. They lead by intuition and follow by impulse. They follow each other— a formation of faces suspended high above the river, each with a story and tale of their travels. Travels that brought them to this Mecca of sorts, this final destination reached by portals of bridges. Guitars strapped to backs, and boots cracked by heat— they are hairy and half-shaven, an assemblage of adventure seekers—musicians and writers, athletes and artists. All shapes and sizes, they are a decorative bunch, a daring throng of traveling twenty-somethings. Like colorful marbles they bob and roll their way over the bridges and into the city that welcomes them with enticing night lights, aroma of change, and the sweet luring hush that promises a Nomad something better to come.


Portland was recently listed in a magazine as one of the “top hottest cities to move to in your twenties”. And many have followed the call. The city is bursting with a wave of youthful influence touching everything in sight—from Portland’s emergence of popular music, to its flooded bar scenes downtown. Something about this laid-back Northwest city has called the attention of countless young adults and they are everywhere.

A few days ago, Cynthia and I sat in the over-sized armchairs at Starbucks to pray before I left for work. We both had a heavy burden to pray for Portland--a city that was unknown territory just months ago, but now is the place we call "home". We chatted a bit at how perplexing it is that we both ended up here--obviously providential as neither of us would have predicted Portland as our post-college stomping grounds. But we are here. And we are not alone. As we began praying for Portland, a city that is sliced by the confluence of the Willamette and Columbia rivers and connected by a series of bridges, I kept seeing a vivid picture in my mind. In it, I had an aerial view of the city. I was watching as huddled crowds of young people were flocking into the heart of downtown Portland by way of bridges. Every major bridge was plastered with packs of people. The picture zoomed in closer and I began to see faces. All of the faces had a lost-look, a wandering look, the look of Nomads in search of an ending. Each individual was incredibly unique, but each looked unfinished. It was as if they were entering Portland to seek completeness.

Maybe the picture I saw was a vision. Maybe it was just an imaginative painting engraved deep in my mind so that I wouldn't forget to pray for this city. I know that Portland is filled with wanderers waiting to be found, to be known by something or someone.

A week after I moved here I attended a church populated by five or six hundred Jesus followers, all under the age of thirty. They had spent an entire week fasting and praying for the revival of Portland. On the seventh day of their fast, they gathered at the highest point in Multnomah county, a park that overlooks every inch of the city of Portland. There they stood, hope-filled and hungry for a shaking awakening, anxious for God's encounter with this place. They held hands and gathered around a plaque that was set in place more than a century ago. The plaque read the story of a group of ministers that had gathered at the same place in the late 1800's, praying for a similar awakening revival to come to Portland. People say history always repeats itself. I believe God will awaken this city once more--but not because of the inherent law of history. He will come as the cries of desperation arise--humble prayers accompanied by the turning away from sin. I find it interesting that Portland is the "City of Roses"--arguably the most fragrant of flowers. How fragrant and sweet-smelling this city would be to our Heavenly Father if it was filled with the prayers of the saints. What would a city brimming with a youthful population be like if it was touched by the fresh power of God Himself?

I don't know why Portland remains such an attraction to young people. I don't know why they continue to wander...their faces lit with the hope of meeting something in this place. I like to think they are traveling with intent--intent that will be met with the surprise encounter of Jesus Himself. Nomads and wanderers finally arriving home.

2 Chronicles 7:14

"If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land."

Epiphanize

Epiphanies aren’t for everyone.
Sometimes they come just for us.
Pay us a visit to open our eyes.

Sometimes, epiphanies are ours to share.
Given to us to be given again.
Others eyes, too, will be opened.

I’ll just attempt write my epiphanies;
scribble down my musings and tales.

Speak of His inspiration.
Tell of all His wonderful acts.
Sing sweetly of His mercy
and recall what He has told me.

You can read and pick through—
decide what is yours to keep.

Almost, but not yet: Waiting for Transformation

When I was in college, I used to write alot. Much more than I do now. :) Several times I used a form called a "braided" essay. It is where you take three, four, or more seperate "strands" of story and disjunctively place them one after the next in an incongruent order that is eventually braided together somehow in the end (through use of common theme, idea, phrases, etc.) I wrote the following braided essay a little over a year ago. It's about the idea of waiting and longing... it is a lengthy essay (you might get tired of waiting and longing for it to end :) ). Feel free to skim over or not read at all. I just thought it would be fun to post something a little different.

Almost, but not yet.

May 2, 2006 - The Painting Studio, Western Washington University, 10:05 p.m.

The painting studio is by far the frowziest space on campus. Splashes of paint litter the tiled floors and walls and I can’t really tell what color the room is. Students display uninhibited creativity by cluttering the walls and easels with charcoal drawings and bold expressions of their freedom of speech. Lost artwork posters are tacked throughout the room.

If anyone is familiar with the whereabouts of a large painting and paint brushes marked with the name Liliana Franz, I am interested in retrieving them. The values of these items extend beyond the monetary. Thank you.

What is it that makes art so valuable? I watch Christie to find out. Sometimes I come to the studio two or three nights a week to watch. I bring my journal or a poetry chapbook, melt into a paint-covered stool and stare. The tautness of Christie’s brush breaks and frays as she presses mustard colored paint into the canvas. She tilts her head and erratically splashes the board, forcefully rocking the easel with each move. I think she is painting trees, though they could be clouds. It doesn’t matter which. Her head tilt shows that she knows where it’s going and that’s all that matters. She longs for the finish, the final product that is far off but promised to come. I breathe the rancidly pleasant paint fumes and tilt my head also to stare in anticipation.

Morning thoughts on the porch, 6:51 a.m.

Yesterday I heard of new word, sehnsucht. Sehnsucht is a German word meaning something of a teary longing. “A special kind of longing . . . surrounded by a misty indefiniteness which seems essential to its very nature . . . At times one sees it clearly, at other times it seems to recede before one's eyes . . . Thus, the exploring of this mystery has turned out to be a quest in itself.” There is no English word quite like sehnsucht. The closest we can get is nostalgia, which in no way fully encompasses the same power of emotion. C.S. Lewis refers to sehnsucht as joy. A joy that is “an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.” There is indeed some strange joy in the longing, in the waiting. Knowing what awaits exerts a sense of yearning and desire that cannot be extinguished and places you into the realm of constant transition. I like to think I’ve known this teary longing. At times, I know it everyday.

Reflections on Traveling

I have traveled to Rameswaram, India—the southernmost tip of the continent, an island set somewhere between Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka. A jewel of land floating in the Indian Ocean and the home to no one with white skin. I was “foreigner”, a novelty to roadside vendors and a monster to children. I wanted to strip a layer of brown skin off a pedestrian and cover my paleness. I longed to blend.

Three months after living as “foreigner” I somehow transformed. Tying and folding saris around my body each morning became regular and ritualistic. The skin had peeled off all of my fingers from eating hot curries with my right hand. Even my movements adapted. I stopped looking men in the eyes, I bobbed and twisted my head side to side to say “yes”. I was a Tamil Nadu lady wrapped in a ghostish disguise. Sarojam, a highly respected plump woman in her late sixties, pulled me aside. “You not like other Americans” she said as we paced slowly through the market, stopping in front of a hanging bunch of bananas. “You are special American. You become like Indian.” Her words were reviving. I had become an Indian to her. I had transitioned and I belonged.

May 11, 2006 4:15pm, St. Joseph’s Hospital Emergency Room

I can see a strange stain on the ceiling tiles above me. Its shape looks like Mickey Mouse’s head, and it is preoccupying me while I lay flat on my hospital bed in a backless robe waiting for X-rays on account of an injured neck. My roommate, Kelli, and I were just rear ended three times by an elderly man with dementia. The police told us the man was ninety years old. At the scene of the accident, Bob the tow truck driver tapped the back of my roommates Dodge Neon with his fist and asked what happened. I told him, “A hit and run. They think it was an old man with dementia.”

“Semetra?”

“No…dementia.”

“Did you say Semetra?”

“D-i-m-e-n-t-i-a” I replied slowly in my irritated yet somewhat patient tone.

“Hmm, Semetra. Must be a Toyota.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed a little under my breath remembering the moment. There was some slight stitch of humor in the evening, despite the totaled car, sore neck, and the hot coffee that is cooling and drying on my legs after being flung across my jeans.

A male nurse makes a “knock-knock” noise then enters our enclosed personal space to open the yellow curtain separating Kelli and I. The room has fifteen or twenty segmented rooms, each closed but not soundproof. Two or three curtains away I hear a woman with hives letting out short desperate cries of pain in Spanish. Me duelen los brazos. Through the curtain to my right, there is snoring and gargling that sounds like a blocked garbage disposal. Minutes later I hear urine pelting against the tin of a bedpan. The air begins to smell potent and abrupt pains swell and shrink in my head and chest. I question just when we’ll be able to leave the discomfort of the emergency room and drive home.

An hour passes and I doze in and out of a sleepish dream until I hear a man weeping and sniffing in short perpetual breaths. He is wheeled flat on a gurney into the curtained room across from me. It is strange to hear a man crying so loudly and with such inhibition. Accompanying him is an elderly man with a deep grainy smoker’s voice. He sounds like he is overweight and probably seventy or eighty years old. There is no way of telling, but based on sound I’m sure my guess is near accurate. I can hear the motorish humming of his words, “Just breathe. Just breathe. Come on now, breathe.” I assume the man is dying by the sound of his cry. It is an eerie, untamable cry. A cry that is through with this world. A longer listen through the curtain and I find out he isn’t actually dying, but dying is what he is after. He is suicidal. As each minute passes I find out more. He is twenty nine years old. He is a homosexual and he and his boyfriend just had a nasty break up. He was evicted from his home this morning for overdue rent payments. The nurse keeps asking questions. How long have you been depressed? How have you attempted to end your life? I hate that I can hear every question and answer, but with the curtains there is no way to block the sound. I feel like I am overly invasive and at the same time obligated to help. All I can do is pray, so I whisper prayers for him quietly hoping they will transcend the curtains and bring him some sense of hope. “Sometimes I just feel like if I end it all there will be something better. At least then I could keep some of my dignity” I hear him say. His voice echoes longing. A longing for something far beyond this world. A longing to transition into something new, to escape from the here and now. He gropes for a doorless land of fulfillment and relief. Fulfillment cannot be found in premature death. Or can it? Could he, just like me, be longing for the promise of something greater? I find myself longing too.

More thoughts on the porch, 7:38 a.m.

William Wordsworth thought that sehnsucht was simply a present feeling and beyond explanation. That it was a type of "sweet melancholy" which seems to have no cause. I disagree. The sehnsucht I have experienced has obvious cause. It is a yearning that awakens my desire for something greater, something I don’t know yet. It reminds me that, even in my greatest moments of fulfillment and joy, I am still in transition.

More Reflections on Traveling

“If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” –C.S. Lewis

In nine weeks I will be in Nairobi, Kenya. Once again my white skin will stand bright against a palette of dark browns. Once again I will wish I could connect, wish I could belong. But for now, I am in Bellingham, Washington. Though not a cultural minority, sometimes I still feel a “foreigner”. I have been a foreigner ever since I flew home from India. There is something strange that happens when you leave your country for another country then return home. Your country is no longer home. There is an awakened, uneasy feeling—a suspension beyond citizenship to any one place. I am not an Indian, but I am no longer American. In nine weeks, I will not be Kenyan either. I wait for my true citizenship.

May 2, 2006 - The Painting Studio, Western Washington University, 10:58 p.m.

I ask Christie why she is painting a green colored man. “It’s just under painting” she says. “Eventually he’ll look normal.” I squint my eyes and try to imagine what’s to come, but now it’s impossible. All I can see are blobs of green and orange and the slight outline of a man’s backside. The paint itself seems overly eager to become something. It waits for its transformation.

There's no baggage in waiting.

I find baggage claim carousels so strange. A crowd of people huddled shoulder to shoulder, staring wide-eyed and focused at the still conveyor belt like they are at concert waiting for their rock-hero to emerge from backstage. With several disturbingly loud rings and the flash of an obnoxious twirling red light, the conveyor belt begins to move and out come the bags—a line-up of colorful shapes bobbing along like a circus parade.

My friend Alison and I just flew to Spokane, Washington, and experienced the baggage claim phenomena. We talked about how odd it is that people take their baggage so seriously. After all, it’s just stuff. The minute after their plane touches down, it’s a mad dash to the baggage claim to sit and territorially watch for their prized possessions like a cat waiting patiently for a mouse to appear from a hole in the wall. All of their hope is packed, zippered, stamped, and locked in an encasement of fabric—Heaven forbid they should leave the airport without it. Their baggage is their lifeline—it contains the bikini in the front pocket that is needed to jump straight into the ocean when they arrive at their vacation spot, the blow dryer that will heroically transform their hair into a masterpiece for a date that evening, the aftershave they just can’t live without. The truth is, we could probably all live without what we pack into our checked bags. But, those little things inside our suitcases are needed—they are tools and trinkets that help us through the day, clothes to keep us covered, items to keep us entertained. Essentials. And that is why everyone—including myself—will wait so patiently at the baggage claim carousel, enduring elbow-bumping, babies crying, and sweaty grandpas. Because we wait for what we need.

Jason Upton sings a song I like called “I Will Wait for You”. In a voice filled with desperation and yearning He sings:
“ I will wait for you, Jesus,
You’re the sun in my horizon,
All my hope’s in you, Jesus,
I can feel you now arising.”

I have often waited for my red North Face backpack to swing around the bend of the baggage carousel like it’s the “sun in my horizon”, but waiting on Jesus...could it really be worth it?
Is He really that trustworthy? Absolutely. It is good to wait on the Lord. Isaiah says that “Since ancient times no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides you, who acts on behalf of those who wait for him.” (Isaiah 64:3-4) Whoo! That’s exciting. He acts on behalf of those who wait for him…in a way that no human mind can ever begin to understand or comprehend. How contradictory and counter-cultural to trust and rejoice in the long, tedious, and ultimately frustrating process of waiting. But we rejoice because we have great hope in the one we are waiting for. We wait on a truly awesome God—a God that can shake the heavenlies and make mountains melt like wax. And that very God wants to act on our behalf if we would just wait.

“Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that He may lift you up in due time” (1 Peter 5:6). I find it fascinating that in the Spanish translation of that verse, “due time” literally translates to “the owed time”. What a thought…that if we wait patiently for the Lord, all of our hope in Him alone, it is as if He gives us something that He owes to us for our waiting. Now, we all know that in reality God owes us nothing—but I think He truly delights in honoring us and blessing us for faithfully trusting in Him, waiting on Him when we would rather impulsively make things happen for ourselves. There is always something to be learned throughout the process of waiting—and whether or not we get what we are waiting for, we always get the greatest gift of all in the process—a new found closeness to our Heavenly Father and a lesson in how to trust in Him moment by moment. And our waiting never goes unrewarded. He acts on behalf of those who wait for Him. It may not be the way we were expecting Him to act on our behalf, but it is always the best way, the greatest way—far beyond what we can imagine while we are in the middle of waiting.

When we wait at the baggage claim, we get out of it exactly what we put in…the same bag filled with the same things returns to us after our plane ride. When we wait on the Lord, we never know what we will get in return for our waiting. There is something so fresh and exciting about the newness of His promises and what He can do for those who wait patiently on Him.

Keep waiting!

Cynthia

I have a new roommate! I have a new roommate! And I couldn’t be happier…

…not that things were dull having my 82-year old grandpa as a roommate, but we couldn’t share clothes. Cynthia and I can. :)

Abuelo and I enthusiastically welcomed Cynthia to her new home on Sunday night. Abuelo insisted on buying her flowers, so we made a quick trip to Albertson’s just before her arrival where Abuelo picked out a brightly colored bouquet of gerber daisies, fiery dahlias, and other equally cheerful flowers. Before we finished arranging them, Cynthia was at the front door step with a beaming smile on her face. I had to pinch myself a few times and let out a little scream just to make sure the situation was in fact reality. (The past two months have slowly sputtered along waiting for Cynthia to arrive). Finally, she is here!

To celebrate her arrival, I took Cynthia out to do what I do best…get lost. We jumped in my car and started cruising through Lake Oswego as I pompously boasted about the city I now “knew like the back of my hand.” Apparently, my back hand and I are complete strangers, because I definitely took a wrong turn somewhere and before we knew it we were sitting in a parking lot between an Indian Imports store, a Chinese seafood shop, and a Mexican grocery store. We may as well have been in India, China, or Mexico. I had no clue where we were. After commenting on the beautiful saris in the window of the closed shop, the recent FDA warnings on eating Chinese fish, and how happy we both were with the rich cultural diversity of Portland, Cynthia and I laughed a little and meandered back onto the highway that eventually took us to another highway that eventually got us back safely to my grandfather’s house. We decided that home sweet home sounded like a good place to spend the evening.

Already since Cynthia’s arrival, we have had many great talks—on topics from the seriously spiritual, to the practical, to the hilarious. She has been such a blessing so far, and I am so happy she has finally arrived! We already have a mile-long list of “things to do”, one of which includes living like locals and attending the annual Independence Day Lake Oswego Pancake Breakfast at the park by my grandpa’s house. :)

Please keep Cynthia in your prayers as she begins the journey of adjusting to this new environment, and especially as she hunts for a job. She is hoping to work at a non-profit of some sort (that would make two of us!). Pray that the Lord would provide a great job opportunity for her in His perfect timing. Also pray that we would sharpen and encourage one another, be servants to one another, and especially to my grandfather. I know that God will do awesome things in Cynthia’s heart she walks into this new season of life…

Three down, one to go. Now we’re just waiting on roommate #4….Kelli Simpson!

Proverbs 27:17 “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”

"Teach Me How To Pray" lyrics by Jason Upton

Mommy, I hear the baby crying

Help me, are the words she’s implying

Where’ve I been while my world has been dying

Lord, teach me how to pray

Not my will or my plans or the way I want it

I’m so tired of my hands in the way

So reveal to these eyes the true heart of my Father, today

Lord teach me how to pray

Daddy, I can hear Jesus crying

Help me, are the words He’s implying

Am I sleeping while my Savior is dying

Lord, teach me how to pray

Not my will or my plans or the way I want it

I’m so tired of my hands in the way

So reveal to these eyes the true heart of my Father, today

Lord teach me how to pray

So I’ll keep asking, for Your kingdom to come

Looking, for Your will to be done

For every nation, tribe, and every tongue

Lord, teach me how to pray