WHAT GOOD IS IT?

For almost 9 months, my co-worker JT and I have been teaching a Nepali worship team each Saturday at our Proskuneo School of the Arts. It all started when the pastor of a local Nepali church brought 5 young people to me and said, "this is our worship team." None of them knew how to play any instruments, but evidently they were willing. And, their church desperately needed musicians. So, it had been decided that this guy would play piano...this girl violin...and so on. And, JT and I were tasked with taking these 5 beginners and turning them into a team that could lead worship at church. It has been slow going. But, we are seeing progress.

This past Saturday, the violin player was making more squeaky notes than normal. So, I went over to her and tried to figure out what was going on. When I played her violin myself, to demonstrate what it was supposed to sound like...it made the same squeaking/squawking sound. Ahhh. Rosin. A simple fix! The bow needs rosin. (Rosin is made from the sap of trees, and when rubbed on the bow hair of a violin, helps the bow to grab the string better.) I had talked to her about rosin once before and at that time, she had none. This time, when I mentioned it, her eyes lit up and she said she had some. I was thrilled to watch her take it out of her case. I took the rosin, opened it, and noticed that the rosin had never been used. I took a key and scratched the surface of the rosin and then began rubbing it on the bow. A snicker of laughter went through the room...

It turns out that someone had given her the rosin. But, she didn't know how to use it, so she had been rubbing her bow hair on the wooden casing for the rosin, not realizing that she wasn't doing anything of value. What good is it to give someone something if you are not willing to make sure they can actually use it? Which reminds me of something that happened to me earlier this year...


I had just finished leading worship at a large church conference in a major city. My friend and I were on our way back to the hotel when Victor, an African-American man, asked us for money. Neither of us had any, so we told him so. He seemed to understand and said "Well, pray for me."
And, so, even though we were already past him, we turned around. I asked him his name. And, I asked him what we could pray for him about specifically. He said, "People assume I am on drugs and I am going to spend the money on some addiction. I just want to get my kids off the street. Pray for some prosperity for me."

Just about this time, a man from the conference came over to Victor and handed him a pack of granola bars. Victor had asked him for money earlier, and rather than give him money, he went to his room and brought back granola bars. He went out of his way. I thought it was pretty kind. (And I have done this same kind of thing before.) The man left, saying, "Those granola bars are from the Lord." And Victor kind of just nodded. And now, looking back, I am pretty sure he also grimaced a little. Then, I put my hand on his shoulder and prayed for him. And I felt for him and with him. And I asked Jesus to do some things on his behalf.

After we prayed, Victor sincerely said, "Thank you." And then, in the next breath, he got kind of stirred up...aggravated...he said, "Man, I hate it that people assume. They make so many assumptions. I wasn't asking for food. That guy brought me granola bars. Look at me, how am I going to eat those?" And, he lifted up his upper lip and showed us that he had no top teeth at all. "How am I gonna eat those? Man...I wish people wouldn't assume."


What good is it to give someone granola bars if they have no teeth? 

What good is it to give people what we think they need without taking the time to find out what they really need?

What good is it to give someone rosin if they will just rub the hair of their bow on the wooden casing? 
 
What good is it to give someone what they need without making sure they can actually use it?

Is our desire really that our gifts benefit the ones who receive them? Or, if we are honest, is the giving really about us?

Even In Pain [a reflection on one of Jesus' seven last words from the cross]

JOHN 19:26-27
When Jesus saw His mother and the disciple whom He loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!”

I remember when my mom was in the last stages of her battle with cancer. At unexpected moments, pain would attack and wrack her body and I remember helping her focus on breathing through the pain. And on several occasions, in the midst of her agony, my mom would notice someone else walk into the room. Most often it was a hospice nurse, coming to check on my mom, coming to care for her, to help ease her pain. But before the hospice nurse could offer any kind of greeting or utter a word, my mom would say “hello” and begin to ask questions about the nurse’s life. “How is your daughter doing?” “I have been praying for such-and-such that you told me about, how is that going?” And the nurses’ hearts were moved by a woman who was caring for them when they were “supposed” to be caring for her instead. They could have easily said (and they did from time to time) “You have other things you need to be worrying about, Ann.” “Let’s focus on you and getting your pain under control.” “My situation isn’t as important as what you are going through.”

When Jesus hung on the cross, he suffered all kinds of pain. 

- Physical pain. 39 lashes on his back. A crown of thorns pressed into his skull. Nails driven into his hands and his feet.
- Emotional pain. The shame of hanging naked in a place of public torture and punishment that he did not deserve.
- Relational pain. Some of the people he had invested in for three years and loved so well...they were nowhere to be found. They deserted him.
- Spiritual pain. In his body, he carried all the sins of the world. He was forsaken by his Father...with whom he had only known intimacy and communion.
He knows our pain. He is well acquainted with grief.

When Jesus was hanging on the cross, in the midst of agony that we can’t imagine, Scripture says he saw his mother and John the disciple. Often times, when we are in pain, all we can see is ourselves. We can’t get out of our own situation even for a split-second to be able to notice someone else. But, the pattern of Jesus’ life was clear. He was always seeing people. He saw the crowd like sheep without a shepherd. He saw Zacchaeus hiding up in the sycamore tree. He looked at the rich young ruler and loved him. He saw the woman with the issue of blood. And, while hanging on the cross, he saw his mother. In the midst of torturous pain, he cared for his mother. He cared for her well-being, her future. He wanted her to be well taken care of. And, he trusted his beloved friend John to do so.

Mary could have easily felt, and even said... “Jesus, my child. Here you are, carrying the sins of the world...paying for the redemption of all humankind...you have more important things to be concerned about.” “I will be fine. I will figure something out.” But, in these moments, Jesus shows us the very heart of God. God doesn’t just care for you by offering you salvation. The God of the universe, who certainly does have very important things to attend to- things beyond the scope of what we can understand and imagine- cares about us, and the details of our lives. God cares about the things that are important to us. Simply because we are important to Him. God cares about your daughter. God cares about the decisions you are facing. God cares about the emotions you are wrestling with. God cares about the things you are praying about. God cares about you. So, don’t hesitate to trust Him. Share your heart with him. Cast your cares on Him. For He cares for you. See his heart for you revealed in these words He spoke from the cross. Let Him care for you the way He cared for His mother. For indeed, as He said earlier in His life, His mother and brothers are those who hear God’s words and put them into practice in their lives. May it be so of us.

Pleased to dwell [Christmas and loving where I live]

Right in the middle of the 2nd verse of the familiar Christmas carol, "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" is this beautiful phrase: Pleased as man with men to dwell...Jesus our Emmanuel.

Jesus was pleased to leave the perfection of heaven and come to this troubled earth. He did not roll his eyes before stepping out of heaven and say, "I guess we need to just do this thing." He did not consider it his duty or his obligation, but His joy. He does not simply put up with us. We are the joy set before Him. We are his workmanship- not one more task on a to-do-list. Like an artist who is thrilled to return to her canvas...or like a songwriter with a song burning inside him just waiting to be worked out and finally sung...Jesus is pleased to spend time with us, in us, working on us. He is Emmanuel. And, I am catching more and more glimpses of his joy as I realize how much delight I have living here in Clarkston, Georgia...a refugee town...the most diverse square mile in the USA.

I love living where I live. Don't get me wrong. It is hard. But, it is my joy, my pleasure. And not because I am supposed to say that, because God is like a boss at Chick-Fil-A (no offense at all!) and has predetermined my answers for me. Not because it is the southern or polite thing to say whether I feel it or not. I love living here.

I love getting to visit with Karen Burmese, Ethiopian and Eritrean families in their apartments like I did this past weekend. I love singing their songs and sharing life with them. I love the challenge of driving streets full of potholes (it keeps me alert, for one!) and there's nothing like coming up over a hill to find a group of Nepali teenagers walking in my lane. I love the swerving and the nodding and the smiling that says, "I see you. I'm glad you're here. Do your thing. I'm happy to move over."

I love that kids stop their pick-up soccer game to listen to Christmas carols being sung by a makeshift choir. And I love it when a little Chin Burmese girl I've never met before taps me on the shoulder and says, "I know how to do a cartwheel." It is my joy, my pleasure to watch you do a cartwheel and to clap my hands as if you just finished a perfect gymnastics routine at the Olympics. And, you know, I just might try a cartwheel with you. It's been a while but...yep...I still can. Whew!

It is my pleasure to step over trash on the sidewalks. I know that seems strange. And, yes, I want you to learn about littering and how to care for the environment. And yes, sometimes I will even spend a whole morning or afternoon with a garbage bag and a trash-grabber to pick it up myself. It is my pleasure. But, it's my pleasure to walk over it too. Because it reminds me that we all have junk in our lives. And whether we try to keep it in sanitary bins or not, it spills out. Our junk affects one another. It is on display when we least want it to be. We all have weeds growing up in our souls. And even though perfectly manicured lawns try to give off the appearance that we are ok, we are not. Everything is not as it should be. And when I step over the trash in our neighborhood, I remember that. And, it feels like reality.

It is my pleasure to speak with you in simple English. It is so good for me to think about what I really want to say and it is my joy to consider you and how you would best understand. It is freeing for me to get rid of so many meaningless words and get right to the point. It is my pleasure to become the message by using signs and movements, even acting it out when need be. And it is my thrill when your eyes light up because you understand.

It is good for me to slow down my ears and even my soul to listen to you slowly form sounds and syllables in English. All day long I am being barraged constantly with noise and words on top of more words. They come at me a mile a minute. It is my joy to walk with you as you haltingly and cautiously take courageous new steps in unfamiliar verbal territory. And it is my pleasure to hear what you are trying to say that is being communicated without words. You are so brave. Maybe you don't feel like you have any choice, but I know that you do. And, I affirm your choice to communicate and engage by my patient smiles and gentle corrections.

I want to answer your questions. I may not know the answer but I understand that I can figure it out with a lot less struggle than you can. I can read the signs without hardly thinking. I can access google on my phone rather than making you wait for the internet cafe to open. I can know who to ask by effortlessly discerning the context clues. I am happy to connect you to the information you need. I want you to succeed. To flourish. That is my joy.

It is my joy to ask you what your language is and to offer you the few words or even the song I know in your language. You are worth it. It is my joy to learn a word or phrase in a language I have never heard of before- to become a student and let you be my teacher. It is my privilege to stumble over the sounds and the syllables of your words to identify with what you have to go through every day as you learn my language. You are worth the humility, the effort, the attempt, and even the failure. And it is my delight that my mispronunciations can make you laugh for a moment during this difficult day.

I am pleased to surprise you with a greeting. I know that I am just jogging past you on the street. I know that I am part of the majority culture in this country. I know that I don't have to interact with you if I don't want to. But, that's the thing. I do want to. It's my pleasure. It's my joy. It's one of the reasons I moved here. I know I don't have to say anything. But, I choose to say, "Hello, sir." Yes, that's right. You heard me correctly. I called you "sir." I see you. I honor you. It's my pleasure and my delight. I feel no sense of duty or obligation. I am pleased to live here with you. I am delighted to share this community with you. This is our town. This is our world. Thank you for sharing it with me.

Sticking Up For Strangers

I had to stick up for a complete stranger this week. I have never met him. All I know about him is that he has dark skin, dark hair and chases squirrels around other people's yards. [Yes, you read that right!] We live in a multicultural community. There are a lot of opportunities for misunderstanding and judgment and the like. There are also a lot of opportunities not to assume the worst about people. I am going to let you read one of the threads from our neighborhood online dialogue. (Removing names and other personal info...) You'll see why I stepped in. And, how it changed the course of the dialogue.

NEIGHBOR #1: Today I chased away a guy in someone else's yard who was trying to catch a squirrel. He had parked his van, got out, and was chasing it around a tree. So random, but I don't think I want to know what he was going to do with it!
 
NEIGHBOR #2: Was there a slingshot involved?!

NEIGHBOR #1: Not that I saw. He was just kicking at it and chasing it. Maybe before I got there though.

NEIGHBOR #3: Was it an old rough looking guy with a small back pack. He used to hang around in the subdivision and suddenly I'm seeing him again. I was coming back from church and he was sitting on the curb.

NEIGHBOR #1: Young guy, dark hair, dark skin. Was driving a van.

NEIGHBOR #4: That is unbelievably weird and creepy.

NEIGHBOR #5: Thank you for being so brave Neighbor #1, but please be careful. The guys elevator obviously doesn't go all the way to the top floor if he is randomly stopping and getting out of his vehicle to chase squirrels.

ME: Just to offer a different perspective...in many countries, squirrels are a good source of food. (I have never tried it, but that's only because in the other countries I have lived in, squirrels did not abound!) It may seem strange to some people that we let all these squirrels run around when we could be feeding our families. And, I can guarantee that what to do about squirrels running around is not part of the training that refugees and immigrants receive when they arrive in the USA. :) Just thinking out loud...



NEIGHBOR #1: That's a great perspective.

NEIGHBOR #6: yes, but it is against the law to kill squirrels here-as far as I know. yikes

NEIGHBOR #7 (also works with refugees in the community): My husband says squirrels taste good ... He is from Mississippi : )

NEIGHBOR #8: In this day and age, I would NOT eat squirrel but in my days (60's in Alabama) my in-laws would kill squirrel and fry it up and it tastes just like chicken! Good eating when you have nothing else. Mix it with gravy and homemade biscuits and you are in hog heaven.


So, what do YOU think about this dialogue? Talk to me.

What does faith smell like?

For those of you who have followed our house story, first of all...thank you. Second, you may remember that we have a basement. It has been empty. We cleaned all the mold out. We cleaned all the mouse skeletons out (after they fell on some people's heads). We cleaned up the sewage that overflowed there as well. (A huge thank you to those who helped with that- you know who you are!) For a year and a half, it hasn't smelled like mold or sewage anymore. But, it hasn't smelled good either. Until this week.

For almost 7 years, we have had a dream for the basement. We want to turn it into overflow Proskuneo office, meeting, and recording studio space. We want short-term and long-term guest housing down there. And, we even want a place where missions teams (15 people or more) could crash for a weekend while serving here in Clarkston. But, instead of being filled with people coming and going, it has sat empty. And, for someone like me who likes to maximize resources and people and space, that just stinks.

We have been waiting. And waiting stinks too sometimes, if I'm honest. In the waiting, we have been saving. We have been able to save thousands of dollars. (OK so most of that is this year's tax refund, but still, that is a feat for us!)

This week, we decided, in faith, to go ahead with the project. We hired a Christian contractor from El Salvador, who is able to almost all the work himself at a GREAT price. And, he came and dropped the wood off on Monday. Everything about the basement is the same, but now there is a pile of wood in it. And, you know what? It smells different. It doesn't smell old anymore. It smells like new, fresh wood. It smells hopeful. It smells like faith. Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

We spent almost all the money we had saved on the initial payment to the contractor. And, now, he is beginning to work on it. We are praying that when he is ready for the next payment, God will have provided more money to give him. Do you want to help us? Click here to donate securely.

As far as today is concerned, we are enjoying the smell of faith in our basement.

Being a Good Neighbor: When the dog bites, when the trash stinks, when the bridge is bad

Yes indeed, if you have ever seen the Sound of Music, you quite possibly could read this blog's subtitle and hear Julie Andrews singing those lyrics in your head. (The songwriter in me made sure the syllables match exactly, which is no surprise at all to my songwriter friends and students!) I'm quite sure that Rogers and Hammerstein would not appreciate that re-write. And, I am sorry for getting that song stuck in your head. If I were a better neighbor, I would not have done such a thing to you, my virtual neighbor. But, I still have a lot to learn about being a neighbor....

WHEN THE DOG BITES
...which is what I realized last Friday morning when my quiet time with God was interrupted by the loud squawks of our distressed rooster, and my wife's impassioned plea for me to do something about the dog that had its jaws clamped around our new pet. (Yes, it is true that we have a pet rooster...more about that in another post, maybe...it certainly merits a post of its own!) I ran outside to see a strange dog taking a bite out of the hind end of our rooster. Adrenaline kicked in and I chased the dog off with a big stick and some angry growling noises. For the next few minutes, I wondered if the rooster was dead while I kept the dog at bay. The rooster did not move- it was a miserable pile of ruffled feathers. The dog kept coming back looking for seconds. I kept shaking my stick and yelling for it to go home. When the adrenaline faded, I was angry...angry that someone else's irresponsibility caused harm to something I was responsible to protect. And, I was sad because the rooster's crowing was a source of comfort to me and brought back great memories of my life in the Dominican Republic. So, with a big stick in my hand, and my eyes on the pile of feathers, I prayed out loud. I gave my anger and my sadness to God. And, I confessed that I had no idea what to do in this situation. Slowly, but surely, God led me step-by-step. I learned that good neighbors don't assume the worst. Good neighbors believe that relationships with people are more important than roosters. And, good neighbors can offer grace while at the same time being firm. So, I wrote this post on our neighborhood social media platform:

There is a large black and brown dog roaming around our yard. I think it is at least part German Shepherd. It has tags dangling around his neck, so it seems to me that it belongs to someone. I came outside this morning to watch him taking a bite out of one of our chickens. It has since come back two more times. I want to give the owner a chance to come and get it. I understand that accidents can happen and dogs can get out of well-secured areas. But, if it is still coming around later today, I will call Animal Services. This is not safe for my chickens, or for my children (much more important!). Thank you!

My post was met with help (another neighbor caught the dog and returned it to its owners) and appreciation (the owners apologized to me and told me that their dog had slipped out the front door that morning and they "appreciated" my post.) I told them that I was glad to meet them, even if it had to be under such circumstances. Our rooster has recovered (except for its tail feathers), it seems. And, I learned about being a neighbor.


WHEN THE TRASH STINKS
A few days later, I was walking in the neighborhood with my two older kids. We got caught in the rain, and before we knew it, we were soaking wet. As we turned onto our street, we noticed that one of our neighbors trash cans had tipped over and trash was streaming down the street in a river of rainwater. At that moment, I had a thought..."pick it up." We could have easily walked right on by. It wasn't our trash, or our responsibility. But, we were already soaking wet. And, we could save a neighbor some gross work and frustration by picking it up. And, there was no car in the driveway so I thought we could do this good deed and no one would even have to know. So, I rallied my kids and we started picking up rain-soaked fast-food wrappers, and baby wipes, and dirty diapers. Just then, our neighbors pulled into the driveway. They were grateful, and I think a little embarrassed. I was able to say that it wasn't their fault and we were just glad to help. Oh, and we live in the house at the top of the hill. Nice to meet you. Good neighbors aren't afraid to get dirty to help someone out. And, they don't care about their efforts being recognized.

WHEN THE BRIDGE IS BAD.
The same day as the trash pick-up, and just two days after the dog/rooster incident, we had another great opportunity to meet a neighbor and to serve lots of other neighbors without any recognition. There is a path through the woods from our neighborhood to the local high school. And, on that path is a bridge over a creek/drainage ditch. A while back, my oldest daughter noticed that the bridge was missing lots of slats, meaning that people had to balance on the telephone pole joists if they wanted to get across. It was dangerous and inconvenient. She asked if we could do something about it. We want to encourage our kid's awareness of community needs and their initiative! So, we took some of the money we gave Jesus for Christmas and bought some wood with it. And, we used our new-found construction skills (thanks to the house renovation!) and set out to repair the bridge before school started back the next day. While we were repairing the bridge, a neighbor came through and asked us what we were doing. When we explained, he asked if we were using our own money to pay for the bridge. I was able to explain that it was God's money (which he couldn't get over...) and that we were glad to use it to serve others. He offered to help and we spent the next thirty minutes getting to know each other and working together to build this bridge. Good neighbors see needs. And good neighbors don't always wait for someone else to step up and meet the needs.




I am learning that you never know when you will have an opportunity to be a good neighbor. I am learning that often negative situations can be opportunities for relationships to be built. And, I am learning the power of extending the grace that we have received. What are you learning about being a good neighbor?

What Does Your House Say? And To Whom?

The truth is that we are always communicating. My new haircut may tell you that it is getting warmer in Georgia. Or it might say that I don't want to spend time in front of the mirror. My clothes might say one thing to one person, and something different to someone else. Even my vehicle and my house communicate, whether I like it or not. Now, hopefully, someone will get to know me, and not assume things about me based on the way I dress or the house I live in. But, the reality is that these things are communicating something. To someone.

My genius wife and our incredibly artistic friend Marie worked together to create this sign that hangs right outside our front door at our house.

Our hope is that this sign will communicate something. To many someones. We want people to know that they are welcome in our home. This kind of sign is very different than the "No Trespassing" sign someone suggested we post on our property. :) We want people to come to the door. To drop by. To know they have a place with us. We have lived in this house less than a year, and already we have served well over 300 meals to people (not our family!) here. This is a priority for us.

Not only do we want people to know that they are welcome in our home, but we also want them to know they don't have to check their culture or their language at the door. We have lived in this house less than a year, and already we have hosted friends from over 18 different cultures in our home for either a meal or a time of worship. This is a priority for us. We are called to see nations come together for God's glory here on earth as it is in heaven.

This sign has started many conversations. People have noticed this as they drove past our house. We have been asked repeatedly "What language is that?" We have been told many times that we should add another language. And, some friends have even helped us get their language added to the sign. We have seen many smiles as people realized that their language is represented at our house.

What does your house say? And to whom? Have you ever thought about that before?