A journal entry from Malawi...

June 23
1:07pm, somewhere near Chilombo

The bus is heavy with heat and the faint smell of engine exhaust, hovering over a thin layer of dust that never quite dissolves in the warm air. We have broken down on our way out of the village. This afternoon we shared with the people in the village again, the men meeting to speak about leadership in their families and villages, the women about their value and identity in Christ. I wasn’t expecting to be with the women today, I was on the schedule to be with the kids, and in fact was for the earliest part of the morning.

The little girl who had fallen asleep in my lap yesterday came and found me again immediately, and we sat down in the shade. Another little girl joined us. She was tiny, maybe 5 years old (though here, that probably means 6 or 7), and she wore a white dress with red trim, dirty and badly torn. She sat down at my left. I played games with her and made animal noises—I can’t speak Chichewa, so most of my communication was to say, “Ndi (make a noise like a pig, horse, chicken, etc.)” Which means, “what do you call (fill in the noise.)” This amused her greatly (especially the pig noises), and we played until I ran out of recognizable animal noises. (I don’t know what lobster sounds like, really.) The girl in my lap, Linda, was clearly better taken care of than the other children I’ve seen here. She wore a different dress than the one she’d worn yesterday, clean. She is plump and wears long braids in her hair. She is also more forward with asking for things (and simply taking them, like sunglasses, etc.), and she smacked away the hands of other children who tried to touch me. I tried to ignore the thought that having more things inherently leads to selfishness. Even if it were true, I will accept no suggestion that would alleviate my newly realized responsibility (as someone who is rich) to do whatever I can to help meet the basic needs of these children, and even to offer them what temporary joy is within my power to provide—crayons and ribbons and nail polish. These things mean so very little to me, and here they are gold. In any case, I decided that the plump little girl with the braids was probably just selfish in the same way that many 4-year-olds can be selfish, and I humored her and simply slipped my hand away quietly to hold hands with the little girl in the red and white dress.

I’ve sponsored Yankho for over a year now. I decided to sponsor Alinet yesterday, and I’d begun to think that I’d like to sponsor a child in my mother’s name as a Christmas present. Mom sponsored a child in Guatemala until he was no longer eligible, so I know she’d love it. I know she’d do it herself if she could afford to, but she’s just begun a new job a week ago—she just graduated from nursing school and had been laid off for quite some time. I leaned over to ask the name of the little girl in the red and white dress (who had been patiently and gently enduring the scorn of the plump little girl), and she said, very, very quietly, “Joy.” Thankfully, "what is your name" is one of the few phrases in Chichewa I finally got down. In that same moment, someone came over and asked if I could facilitate a women’s group. They’d apparently been short one leader, but had a translator ready, and so I ran off rather abruptly.

I was a bit unnerved—though I’d been praying for the group leaders all morning, I hadn’t prepared to lead a group, and didn’t realize I had, in fact, been praying for myself. Naffe was my translator, and she was wonderful. I feel so terribly inarticulate here, and it seems to get worse each day—even when I’m speaking in my own language to other Azungu. We talked about what it was like to be a woman in Malawi. They shared the challenges that they face daily—lack of food, sickness, having to provide for their children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren without the help of a husband, and often mal treatment if they do have a husband. I asked them how they get through, and a woman said, “we persevere, only because of God.” Another woman said that they still loved their husbands because that is what God would want from them. Their strength and beauty and grace are unparalleled, and it overwhelms me. I tried not to, but my eyes welled up with tears, and I asked Naffe to tell them that I hoped to be half as strong and beautiful as they are, and that they make me proud to be a woman. I told them that God’s heart breaks for their sorrow, and that if I see their perseverance, how much more does God see, who sees everything—God who will pour out rich blessings upon them when he returns to claim his daughters, the daughters of the King. But even as I said the words, it seemed not enough comfort to offer. I wanted so much to tell them that there would be relief now, or even soon—but what can I offer, save empty words? I know that my wealth is not my own, and that I should feel responsibility, not guilt—but what of disgust? What of anger? As I sat there with those beautiful women, thin, barefoot, hands calloused with babies strapped to their backs or nursing at their breast, what I have seems unendurably arbitrary. I don’t know how to not be angry right now. I pray that God will guide this anger into something more productive.

When I returned an hour later, I could not find Joy, and I asked Davey to track her down. Alinet came over to greet me, and pantomimed to ask me to watch her school books while she went to play net ball. I was happy to do it. I’m so glad she feels free to go and play today. I think she stayed glued to my side yesterday mostly out of obligation after Pike told her I was to be her sponsor. (I didn’t realize they told the kids right there in front of you when you made a decision to sponsor them.) I kept trying to pantomime to her to go play. She is 13, and is proving to be quite the athlete. I just want her to go have fun while there is fun to be had. I know two busloads of Azungu with soccer balls and jump rope is more excitement than these kids have seen in a while. I’m glad she feels more free to go today.

Davey returned to tell me that he could not find the girl called Joy, but he wanted to know if my mother might be interested in sponsoring another child. (Apparently “sponsoring in the name of” doesn’t translate well, and I didn’t think it was important enough to explain.) I said yes of course, and he asked if he could share a story with me. Davey brought with him an old woman, so thin she looked like a skeleton made to walk around. She spoke very softly, and Davey began to translate. “I want to share with you this woman’s story, because there is a very great need. Her niece is called Ellen, and Ellen’s mother died years ago. Her father did not want responsibility for the child, so now her aunt cares for her, but she is so poor that she cannot provide for Ellen. She has nothing.” Davey asked if I thought my mom would consider sponsoring Ellen, and I agreed immediately. I knew mom would want to help where there was great need, and I hoped I would get to meet Ellen before we left the country. The woman thanked me, and I thanked her, and shortly after our team left to board the busses. Just as the engines started, and that familiar smell of dust and exhaust kicked up into my nostrils, I saw Davey running up to the bus with a little girl in his hand, calling to me. It was Ellen, and he lifted her up onto the stairs to greet me. My heart leapt. It was the same little girl in the red and white dress who I’d played with, who had endured the constant rebuke of the girl with the braids just to be near me—and whose name I had clearly misheard when I asked for it. I tried, unsuccessfully I feel, to explain this to Davey in the few seconds that she was on the bus, but as I’ve said, I’ve become terribly inarticulate.

So here I am on our broken down bus, in the heat of the African sun, inhaling in the heavy perfume of exhaust. I hear the chatter behind me as other team members joke (or perhaps half-joke) about rationing out their granola bars and fruit snacks until we’re rescued. I breathe in deeply—and choke on the dust—and nothing could dampen my spirits in this hour.

on a prayer... a Summit Church worship article

“Lord we pray that you would take your word and apply it to our minds, that we may not grow shallow, apply it to our hearts, that we may not grow cold, and apply it to our feet, so that we may not just be hearers of your word, but doers also…”

There is a girl sitting next to me in a chair with a cup holder, and I see her as she mouths these words silently to herself as Isaac speaks them aloud to God in the presence of this congregation. Perhaps I should be more holy and have my eyes closed, but in this moment, I’m so glad that I do not.

I remember the first time I heard this prayer. I was sitting in a chair with a cup holder, alone, in a dimly lit, intimate little room with gently sloping movie theatre seats. I was at once and forever charmed by the profound simplicity of that prayer, and I have come to appreciate (in increasing degrees) the verity with which it reflects one of the most unsullied desires of this body—to worship God with every part of ourselves.

“Take your word and apply it to our minds, that we may not grow shallow…”

Surely you desire truth in the inner parts;
you teach me wisdom in the inmost place.
Psalm 51:6

For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.
2 Peter 1:6-8

In one of the first sermons I’d ever heard preached in that little theatre, Pastor Isaac (whom my mother, two years later, still affectionately refers to as “Pastor Miyagi”) shared a memorable caveat. “The greatest gift you can give anyone is your own person pursuit of holiness.” There have been seasons in my life when I’ve fallen prey to the impertinent delusion that I may actually have anything of value to offer anyone, that doesn’t come soundly from God—that it’s even possible for me to think up something that could effectively communicate God’s truth, without first pursuing God directly, humbly, and frequently. I have since learned well that my very best moments are altogether a manifestation of Christ’s direct grace in my life, and that my very worst moments are a manifestation of my stubborn interference therein. If I believe that God is so perfectly sublime that I am incapable of any good apart from his grace, may I worship Him through my constant pursuit. May I worship him by seeking out a greater understanding of his character. May I worship him by my immersion in the truth of his word, that I may be transformed into his image for the sake of others.

“…apply it to our hearts, that we may not grow cold….”
But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called Today, so that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.
Hebrews 3:13

Turn my heart toward your statutes and not toward selfish gain. Turn my eyes away from worthless things; preserve my life according to your word.
Psalm 119:36-37


There was a man who “keyed” my car once. Just 4 days prior, this same man ran into my car in the middle of the night, while I was parked in my driveway. I turned him into my insurance, only to find he was uninsured, and my insurance was filing suit. The day after I had my car repaired, someone drug a key across the entire section of the repair—and only that section. I have no witness of this, so I suppose it’s speculation to say that it was this same man. (But if I were a betting woman…)

What sticks out to me, in retrospect, is that I lost days of my life to my anger. It seemed far more important for me to be angry (and to gain affirmation for my anger) than it was for me to do anything else. What a waste of my time.
There is a very brief window of opportunity that we have here, and then, like a breath, this life will be gone. Is it really more important for me to be right than it is for me to be helpful? I have done far worse than keying cars.
The selfishness that blinds me from the urgency with which I should pursue the hearts’ of other with the message of God’s grace slowly eats away my time, moment by unnoticeable moment. I pray that He would soften the parts of my heart that become hard when I refuse to others the grace of which I, myself, am so wholly undeserving. May I worship God through my softness. Perhaps then I will one day dance on the streets of the New Earth, hand in hand with that man and his key.

“…apply it to our feet, that we may not just be hearers of your word, but does also.”

Is this the kind of fast I have chosen,
only a day for a man to humble himself…
Is that what you call a fast,
a day acceptable to the LORD ?
"Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice…
when you see the naked, to clothe him,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
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…
The LORD will guide you always…
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins…
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.
Isaiah 58:5-12

One of my earliest Christmas Eve memories is of a bar in downtown Pittsburgh. I was six, I think. My mom led us around the city collecting donations. We took the money to the nearby dollar store and put together several modest Christmas stockings to give out at a local soup kitchen Christmas Day. I remember the bar looking rough as we approached—but then again, I was six. I waddled in under too many layers of clothes, pink-nosed and mittened, carrying a little bucket that rattled with change. There was a large, bearded, leather-clad man who eyed our trio suspiciously. I imagine this was about the time mom began to wonder if we should depart before asking these people for their money. But before she had as much as a moment to act on her apprehension, the large, bearded fellow walked right over to me, scooped me up, and placed me securely on his shoulders as my mother’s jaw dropped open. He walked me around the entire bar in that fashion. We visited many other scruffy men with pony tails and unfiltered cigarettes, and their girlfriends sporting Kiss t-shirts and bleached-blond mullets.
I left with a full bucket.
This memory is convicting for me, because my mom was not a Christian at the time. She had no relationship with God, and yet she was willing to do what she could to love others. I am not always so willing to put my love into action—and that to my shame, as I know the God who is Love himself. I have a dangerous tendency to over-spiritualize the very real, very tangible needs of my community. What use is it for me to memorize verses of scripture which say things like, “you see that his faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did,” if I’m not going to put my knowledge into action? Does it even matter? Am I any better than one who knows nothing of the gospel? May I worship God not simply with my mind, my words, my emotions—may I worship him with my sweat as well.

on splinters...

I stepped on a piece of glass today. It left a tiny splinter in my left foot, and the pain of it with each step was nearly intolerable. The problem with a glass splinter is that you can’t really see it in your skin. I sat down with a pair of tweezers, and ran a fingernail over my foot to see if it caught against anything. It did. I did the same with the tweezers, felt the protrusion, and spent few minutes working and pulling until, at long last, I withdrew a tiny piece of stubborn glass. Satisfied with myself, I got up, threw away the little shard, and went about making a sweet potato and a cup of decaf coffee. It was still a little uncomfortable to walk, but I assumed this was because of the puncture left where the shard had come out. It was nearly three hours later when, as I was walking from my bedroom to the living room, one step sent a sharp pain shooting through my foot causing me to stumble, and I nearly fell. I knew instantly that glass remained in my foot. I hadn’t gotten all of it. I limped awkwardly over to a chair, turned on as many lights as possible, and tried the same approach with the tweezers that seemed to work earlier. It was unsuccessful. I became frustrated. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t reach the leftover glass, nor could I even see it—which made the whole affair even more infuriating. How can I get rid of something I can’t see? After several more minutes of fruitless attempts, I nearly threw the tweezers across the room, got up, and limped to my room to retrieve a pocket knife. With the knife point, I worked below the surface of my skin, and I was shocked at how deeply the glass had been embedded when I finally dug it out. It was painful, and the wound left in its place was significant. I limped to the bathtub and turned on the water. Cleaning it might have been the most agonizing part. The water stung, and the soap was far worse. When I was finished and dry, I covered it with the only band aid I could find, which happened to be covered in black and purple cartoon images of batman.

When I stood to walk, the pain was still significant. It was more arduous, in fact, than the splinter alone had been, and yet more tolerable.
I knew it would heal.

It’s been a long year. I’ve found myself almost perpetually exhausted and, most of the time, unable to really pinpoint why. I’ve found myself sad. I’ve found myself longing. I’ve found myself numb and indifferent. I spent a good deal of time trying to make something fit in my life that was never meant to fit at all. I’ve learned that sometimes God is most gracious to us, not in the things he grants, but in the things he withholds. I am disheartened and disappointed by the decisions I’ve made this past year, and staggeringly grateful that God has been so gracious to save me from my own self-sabotage.

I’ve recently begun attending something called reGroup, at Summit. It’s like a 12-step recovery program, except it’s for everyone. Recovery for life. And while I don’t struggle with a particular chemical addiction, the sin and brokenness that I, and most of humanity, struggle with each day is sufficiently insurmountable for me to navigate alone. What I’ve discovered is that so many of my struggles and poor decisions, like the tiny shard I withdrew with tweezers, are only a surface manifestation of a much deeper splinter. When it starts to hurt, I pick out what I can see, what I can get to fairly easily, and then I spend some time limping around in semi-discomfort until the wrong step suddenly brings me to my knees. I’ve spent a year of my life stubbornly clinging to control over my life, stubbornly choosing what I wanted at the moment over what I knew was best. I’ve spent the year limping, awkwardly, from the pain of hidden glass. I’ve spent a year feeling pain that I’m now certain God never meant for me to feel. Pain that accomplishes nothing, changes nothing, teaches nothing. Wasted pain. Pain that will not heal.

As I work the steps, it’s necessary to dig up a lot of things that I’d prefer to leave buried. Perhaps even more grievous than the wasted pain of bad decisions, is the deep, sinuous pain of unresolved suffering. Abandonment. Let down. Desperation. Hurt. Embarrassment. Betrayal. Humiliation. Believing lies about who I am, and not even knowing how long I’ve believed them. Acting out of that deception. Guilt. Shame.

How much easier it seems to just limp.

The scars reopened as I navigate my past feel far more excruciating than the tiny punctures of my present. Like a knife cutting through the years of callous, the wound is by necessity large, offensive, graphic. But unlike the intolerable prick of a hidden splinter that cannot be removed, the pain I feel now is not wasted pain. It is a transformative kind of pain. Refining. Absolving. Good. It is the pain of reconciliation. It is exactly the kind of pain I know God would have me feel. I get up each day and walk on a wound that stings, but it is tolerable.
I know this pain will heal.

If I mourn anything, I mourn how long I’ve spent on the wrong kind of pain. I pray I’ll never again wait so long to get my knife.

Family Vacation 2008

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWesTo4JSKY

on bread...

Pastor Isaac is in week 2 of a series entitled "Bread," here at Summit. He is discussing how we have a tendency to simply examine what we need to consume. That we "can only be nourished by what we consume."

Here are a few of my (probably unhelpful by comparison) thoughts on the matter...

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”
John 1:1

I like nothing so well in the morning as a good “everything” bagel. A dear friend of mine prefers the more fruity variety, perhaps a blueberry or a strawberry. On a Saturday morning excursion, the two of us stopped at Einstein’s with the intention to split one of their wonderful, delectable, obscenely enormous bagels. Two generous halves of toasted heaven.

It’s the smell, I think, that puts you over the edge. The entire shop is thick with a kind of warm, delightful, doughy smog, reminiscent of grandmas and home and soft butter and makes you half wish the place has very poor ventilation.

Knowing my friend as I do, when it came time to place the order, I asked for a blueberry bagel, toasted, with cream cheese. It was an easy decision. I like blueberry just fine, despite my preference for the “everything.” I love my friend, so my actions changed as a result of her presence—and not begrudgingly, but with a comfortable ease.

I am very good about thinking the words, “God is always with me,” without actually allowing this truth to penetrate my present reality. Present meaning, the reality of what I do with my free time. The reality of my eating choices. The reality of my gossip. The reality of my snooze button. At practicing my awareness of God’s presence consistently enough that it actually affects each choice as I make it, I am, more often than not, an utter failure. And in those precious moments of success when I do remember God is at the bagel counter, I am at the mercy of my knowledge of his preference. I can only hope I know him well enough when the moment of my decision arrives. And those moments are always arriving. In our humanness, we have a tendency to embrace a casual detachment that allows us to read scripture as though it were an addendum to real life—a field manual we only pick up when the situation calls for assistance. But if in the beginning, “the word was with God, and the word was God”, our treatment of scripture is an abject act of intentional starvation. If we cannot learn to ingest scripture as life itself, we will waste away, slowly, of a spiritual anorexia.

In this knowledge, it occurs to me that I must do more with scripture than simply read it—I must ingest it. I must treat scripture as an open dialogue with God—a conversation with a good friend, in which I take great joy in new discoveries. I long to know my God, my Lord, my Lover so well, that such wonderful knowledge renders my own preferences bland, at best.

on having a sponsor...

It would take more than both hands for me to count the number of alcoholics in my family. My brother is one such relative. He has been in recovery for about three years now, devoted to God and his family. He is a loving husband to my sister Heather, and a proud father to my nephew Austin, the love of my life. He and my sister are even heading up a ministry at their church in Pittsburgh aimed at helping to integrate faith and recovery in life-giving ways. When I look at him, when I remember our dark history, when I think of how far he's come—it is impossible for my eyes not to swell with tears just as my heart swells with pride. I am overwhelmed by the grace in his life—and I am so grateful. It was almost a year ago that my brother asked me to get coffee with him at Starbucks.
It was the week before I moved to Florida. We sipped frappuccinos, and Jason began to share with me the journey of his recovery. He talked about the steps, he talked about his sponsor—phrases I had heard my father use in the past. He explained that his sponsor was like a mentor to help him through the steps of this journey—one step of which required him to ask me to Starbucks that afternoon.There, in the billet of coffee-house jazz and background chatter, in the affable murmur of frothing milk, in the warm smells of vanilla and hazelnut, Jason said he was sorry for everything he had ever done to hurt me. These things he recounted by name, and with each new name I could see my pain was also his. Through our mutual tears, through our words of vulnerable transparence, we found forgiveness and restoration at that café table. On the drive home, I turned to Jason and said, "I want a sponsor."
If I need addictions, I will name them. I am addicted to complacency. I am addicted to ignorance. I am addicted to selfishness, slander and idolatry. I am addicted to sin.If a sponsor helps you on your journey to come to terms with your addictions, your need for God, your inability to change yourself apart from his help, the necessity to confess your sins to one another and ask forgiveness—I want a sponsor. I want a sponsor for my life.
Do we need addictions to warrant such a request? I cannot think of anything more significant, more powerful, more life-giving and poignant than the exchange between Jason and I that day. As I reflect on my own life, I'm certain that—whether intentionally or unintentionally—I have hurt others in profound ways. I am certain that others might be blessed by such candor as I was shown. I am certain that I have amends to make. Alcoholics are way ahead of the game on this one.
I'm ready to start my twelve steps.

on communion...

When I was 8 years old, I tried to turn a slice of Wonderbread and a glass of grape juice into the body and blood of Christ on my bedroom floor. As best I could cognitively manage, I copied the exact actions of Father (something or other) in the blessing of the bread and wine each Mass… Arrange bread and juice in front of me. Lift bread up toward the ceiling with both hands. While bread is lifted, sing the following words in a solid, monotone tenor: "through him, with him, in him, in the unity of the holy spirit, allpowerandhonorareyours, almighty Father, forever and evvvvvverrrr. Aaaaaaaaaaameeeeeeeen." Eat bread, which has now been physically transformed into the actual body of Christ. Repeat with wine or grape juice. Drink wine or grape juice. In my naïve, albeit well-meaning, adolescent attempt at transubstantiation, I managed to spill the blood of Christ all over my new white carpet. I tried to hide the purple blemish under (what I thought to be) a brilliantly inconspicuous sneaker, strategically placed in the middle of my bedroom floor. And yet somehow, remarkably, it did not take long for mom to discover my chimerical papal endeavors. She was unimpressed. I remember a long lecture, something to the tune of "WHAT... ARE... you doing with grape juice all over your WHITE CARPET!?" "But it's not grape juice mom! It's... the blood of Christ!"I can't be certain, but I believe her censure softened, markedly, when I explained why I did, in fact, have grape juice in my bedroom that day. Tonight, Pastor Isaac took the time to explain to us what it meant to be a member, a partner, at Summit Church. I remember feeling absolute delight as he spoke the words, "Don't think our mission is to keep you. Our mission is to reach the lost." How brave and profound an idea in our self-aggrandizing consumer culture. In those few moments I reflected, with gratitude, on the knowledge that church is not about me. In those few moments, I was overwhelmed with desire to go where God calls—to serve without reservation, trepidation, irritation. To be truly selfless. I would love to claim that my service is always selfless. I would love to claim that the thoughts I have about the people with whom I live in community are always pure. I would love to claim that my actions, however topically altruistic, are never carried out begrudgingly. But I would be a liar to claim any one of those things. Even at my best, I am often derelict. And then, suddenly, I have a moment. That rare and precious occasion in which I realize that life is not about me—that my desire to do good is genuine, tangible, willing. That moment when, by God's grace, I experience a brief and poignant inkling of transformation. A seed. If only I can make it grow. I long for that moment--even if I am inept at seeking it. As embarrassed as I used to get when mom would tell my friends and relatives about my grape-juice-into-blood-of-Christ debacle, this was as pure a moment as I've ever had. I wanted to be close to Jesus. As an eight-year-old Catholic, this was my best understanding of how to accomplish that. Though my understanding of what it means to be close to Jesus has matured with age, I would be lucky to regain so innocent a pursuit.