Silent Observer

I am a silent observer.

I notice the little things; the way she tucks her hair behind her ears, the lip-biting when he’s excited, the eyes that glance everywhere, that smile at the ground. Those small, insignificant details that might not seem like much from the outside.

I notice, but I do not speak. I stay in the background, listening and studying and soaking it in.

I am not lonely. I am not shy. Perhaps I am in my natural habitat, a world where thin conversation and drying sarcasm have no need to exist. A place where it is not strange to be alone.

Humans are bleeding from the moment they first smile–bleeding emotions and personalities and fears and even the deep, raw embers of the heart. They are flowing with infinite details that create the outline of who they are.

Only a few bother to see it. Only a few choose to notice it.

 

“I was quiet, but I was not blind.”

Jane Austen

Praying in a Mexican Dump

We stepped off the bus and were immediately covered in flies. Protect the sandwiches and swat at your arms because these flies weren’t leaving.

At first, we talked a little bit and took pictures of our surroundings. By the time we had given food to the first family that lived in the dump, no one spoke. It was a holy, sacred silence. Walking up a path partially made of garbage will do that to people.

It seemed so pointless to me. Here we were, a church group on a mission trip, giving Mexicans pathetic sandwiches and some snacks. That was all we could do. That, and pray with them.

What is prayer to me? It’s almost useless. It’s just to make someone feel better.

What is prayer to them? Prayer is life-changing, sin-forgiving, nightmare-erasing. Prayer gave them hope, while I had no hope for them. Chris, the day after we visited the dump, thanked God for freeing that girl from her nightmares. There was no way he could have known. No way.

Didn’t I come all this way to teach them? Shouldn’t I be the one to impact their lives? How come they are the ones that taught me about prayer?

They believed in the power of prayer, while I don’t–not nearly as much as I should. I guess the difference between me and them is that they have to rely on prayer. They literally have nothing to lose. I falsely believe I have nothing to gain.

Perhaps I should take lessons from those Mexicans.

Perhaps I should pray more.

Singing in a Mexican Dump

When I went to Mexico, I saw people who said they were Christians in the poor neighbourhoods and in the dump…and part of me didn’t believe them. How can you be Christians here? How can you possibly worship God while struggling to survive? How can you sing while covered in flies?

How can you be happy in a place like this?

That guy couldn’t have accepted Jesus while standing on that garbage. God can’t be in such a hellish place.

What kills me is that while I’m typing this on my laptop on my bed, surrounded by so many things, they’re still there. All those people, they’re still twenty hours away, in a Mexican dump, digging for resources. I can hear some bugs today buzzing around, but they were nothing compared to the dozens of flies that crawled on us the whole time we were there. Those flies are still there. They’re on these people, even now, right this second. They’ve been on them ever since we left, since before we came, since they decided living in a dump was better than anywhere else.

And yet–they’re happy. The little kid just ran around with his soccer ball. The father picked up Mack’s guitar and started playing. Every single person was grateful when we gave them some food. They were so thankful, so okay with life, so many smiles. 

I knew that when I went there, they would help me see things in a different light, just as I helped them. But man, what a different light that was! It was like smashing a tinted window and seeing clearing, feeling clearly.

And so far, since I’ve come back, I’ve refused to look at the broken window. I think it’s because I didn’t feel such a contrast. These kids weren’t any different from the kids at church or camp. Felix was a normal thirteen year old kid. Gabriel was just his twelve year old brother. Carlos was like any three year old.

I thought Mexico would make me realize how different they were from us…and they weren’t. If you ignored the poverty and lack of education, they were just like us.

Mexico changed me not by the differences I saw, but by the similarities.

Broken

Broken.

That was the first word that swam into my mind as I sat, listening to prayer requests of camp leaders like me. Of course I knew that no one was perfect, but as a camper I assumed the leaders were more solid and strong. I thought they had it all together.

I guess I never thought they’d be like me–learning, growing… scared.

As we talked in that basement room, I realized that these were broken people. Teenagers, actually. We were all a bunch of teenagers and young adults, helping kids with their own problems and walks with God.

One leader struggled with anxiety. Another felt his depression getting worse. So many felt inadequate to lead these kids.

I wondered, How can camp be so effective when everyone is so broken? 

The answer, of course, is God.

A while ago I was reading in the book of Deuteronomy about Moses’ death. The last sentence in Deuteronomy is this: “With mighty power, Moses performed terrifying acts in the sight of all Israel.”

When I was first introduced to Moses, he was a shepherd. When confronted with saving the Israelites from Egypt, what does Moses say? “Who am I to appear before Pharaoh? …Lord, please! Send anyone else.” He protests against the God of the universe because he was nervous, awkward, and afraid of public speaking.

Now let’s fast-forward to the last words about Moses–God definitely used him to do incredible things! What if God had given up on Moses?

What if God gave up on me?

Bible heroes aren’t heroes without God. In fact, they’re broken. They’re shepherds and teenagers and regular people.

I have to remember that I am nothing without God. I, and all the other camp leaders, am broken and messed up and pathetic. I am nothing.

“With mighty power, Moses performed terrifying acts in the sight of all Israel.”

With God, however, we are powerful. We are strong.

We are capable leaders.

* * *

For those of you who actually know me, yes, I know camp ended more than a month ago. I just hadn’t gotten around to finishing this post. Enjoy!

Pressing Pause

Taking tests

Making dinner

School projects

Tucking in the kids

Science homework

Paying bills

Friend dynamics

Late nights working

Birthday parties

Yard-work…

Take life’s remote and press pause.

Breathe in and out.

Gaze at the beauty around you.

Thank God for every wonder.

Remember to smile and breathe and laugh.

Press play.

Maybe take it in slow motion.

These moments don’t last forever.

Alive

Do you have that place, that memory, that time that just sticks in your mind like a rainbow in a storm? It’s when you’re in the middle of a crazy, messy, beautiful time and you stop, breath, and realize just how wonderful it is. You’re making memories. You’re making something that at the time doesn’t seem so wondrous, but when you reflect on it later you realize just how beautiful it was.

Maybe you’re having a laugh attack with your cousins, trying to keep quiet because it’s midnight and everyone’s asleep. Perhaps you’re sitting down at a long, misplaced table with a steaming hot plate of Thanksgiving feast, and you glance around at your mismatched extended family and smile. Or maybe you’re sitting around a campfire as the glowing embers slowly fade, and the heat warms your skin and heart.

Those are some of my rainbows, those memories that won’t die. It’s those moments that make me realize how blessed I am and how loved I am and how amazingly crazy it is that I am alive and I am breathing.

It’s those moments that make me feel alive.

Perspective: Waves of Doubt

I looked up at the sky and my stomach lurched. Dark clouds were starting to roll in. The wind had already began to blow.

     “Man, Andy, look at that,” I said to my brother. Andrew turned and his eyes widened.

     “Of all the days for Jesus to send us across the lake!”

     Thoughts of doom started swirling in my mind. While Jesus was somewhere safe on land, we were approaching a storm in our puny boat. What fun. And this time, Jesus wasn’t with us to calm the storm!

     A huge wave rocked me out of my thoughts. The storm was getting stronger. The wind was furious.

     “Shifts, men!” Philip shouted. “Who will take the first shift?” Nearly everyone put up their hand. “Okay, Bart and Thomas and James will be first. Everyone else should try to get some sleep.”

     We all headed down and tried to sleep. Yeah, right–who’s going to sleep in this storm?

     I woke up to someone shaking me vigorously. “Peter! Wake up!”

     I rolled over and opened my eyes to see Judas staring at me. He looked downright terrified. “What is it?” I mumbled.

     “I don’t know, I think somebody’s drowning, but maybe it’s a ghost!”

     “What?” I asked as I sat up. I followed him to the edge of the boat. By now, most of the disciples were out as well, looking out at the lake. Judas pointed out into the waves. I didn’t see anything.

     “Look closely,” he said. And then I did see it. There was some figure out in the water. It didn’t look like he was drowning–in fact, he wasn’t struggling at all. It actually looked more like he was hovering over the water.

     “Do you see it?” Judas asked. I nodded. “He’s not even under the water, Pete! It’s like he’s walking on it!”

     I strained my eyes. It did seriously look like that. But it couldn’t be real, could it? People don’t just walk on water!

     “Guys, it’s alright,” a voice said. I nearly jumped out of my skin–the voice was somehow right next to my ear despite the howling storm. For some reason I knew it was coming from that man in the water. “Don’t be afraid,” he continued. “Take courage, ’cause I’m here!”

     Wait…was that Jesus? Relief rushed like a wave over me. Now here was someone who could stop the storm! He had done it before–so why not do it again? “Lord, if that’s really you,” I called out to him, “tell me to come to you. Like, walk on the water!” I stumbled back, shocked from the words that had just come out of my mouth. I hadn’t meant to say that! I wanted Jesus to calm the storm, not get me walking on it!

     Some of the disciples snickered. “Yes, come!” Jesus said from the water.

     I don’t even know why I obeyed him. Walking on water? That was crazy! Despite every bone in my body fighting against this insane idea, my heart seemed to pump passion into me. I carefully crawled over the boat and jumped down, expecting to sink as usual. The disciples gasped. I opened my eyes.

     I was standing on top of the water.

     I looked at Jesus. He smiled warmly at me and motioned for me to come to him. So–what else was I supposed to do?–I began to walk toward Jesus, each cautious step landing on the surface of the lake. My breathing was steady, but inside there was a turmoil of thoughts spinning inside of me. Okay, I thought. I am walking on water. On top of water. I’m not sinking. And all of this is happening in the middle of a crazy storm.

     I peered down at my sandals. They calmly looked back up at me. Then I glanced to my right. The waves were far from calm. Instead, they raged and crashed in a furious dance, angry waves of frustration. One wave reached higher than my head, and my eyes widened. That is one crazy storm. Suddenly my heart stopped pumping passion into me and Jesus’ smiling face disappeared and I was left staring at the wide open water, far from the safety of the boat and surrounded by humongous waves of anger. My heart almost stopped beating. I was terrified.

     First my feet got wet, then my legs went under, and I realized I was sinking. Sinking. The one thing I trusted Jesus to overcome for me.

     “JESUS!” I screamed as I fell. “Save me, Lord!” I tried to gulp some air as my head went under. I thrashed around, desperately hoping to grasp something solid. Suddenly a hand gripped my wrist and yanked me up. I coughed and sputtered. It was Jesus. He had saved me.

     Jesus shook his head sadly. “You have so little faith.” His voice felt broken and rejected. “Why did you doubt me?” I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t say a thing. Holding my hand tightly, we walked slowly back to the boat and climbed back in. I laid on the floor, panting and wondering what had just happened.

     The disciples surrounded Jesus, oblivious to me. “You really are the Son of God!” Andrew said in awe, kneeling at Jesus’ feet. The others copied him.

     I closed my eyes and breathed in. When I opened them, I stared at the sky. The storm clouds had disappeared. I listened to the water. The waves were calm. The boat wasn’t rocking out of control.

     I closed my eyes again and smiled. Sure, I had messed up. I hadn’t trusted that Jesus could keep me from sinking. I had trusted the waves more than him. But through it all, he had still bothered to calm the storm, the thing I had wanted him to do in the first place.

     I guess I had learned my lesson.

* * *

This is based on the story of Peter and Jesus walking on water. To read the full story, go to Matthew 14:22-33.

 

Butterfly Freedom

The man sat on the damp grass, the dew soaking through his pants and reminding him of his cold soul. The gloom of the tombstone covered him, keeping him in the shadows. Just like he used to be.

It wasn’t always like this.

She was carefree and always smiling. She should have been scared. He remembered the first time they met, with him in a dark cloak in the pouring rain. She was waiting for the city bus too. And then for some unknown reason, she moved closer to him so they were both in the comfort of her umbrella. The only kind gesture anyone had made for him.

Her eyes always twinkled when she looked at him. He didn’t know how to respond. Never had he felt such…such emotion.

But at the same time, he knew it couldn’t be true. She didn’t love him. She couldn’t. How could she love someone like him, a person who’s heart was so frozen and thin that ice-skaters would fall right through?

And yet she continued to smile. Her hazel eyes danced when they met. Everything she did and said sang, “I love you,” but he still backed away. Soon it would all be over. She would admit she never loved him, that it was all an act, that all she wanted was his money.

Then she showed him her butterfly cage. It was nothing like he had ever seen before. The colors, the freedom…it flowed into him. The butterflies flew into his heart and started to melt it.

The warmth began to shine through.

He relaxed his tense muscles whenever she held his hand. He smiled when he saw her. He began fooling himself into thinking she did actually love him. He began to love her back.

And then one day, as they met at the bus station–the place they had first seen each other–the rain began to pour down, much like that first day. Her umbrella covered both of them. Then he moved the umbrella and held her hands, staring into her innocent face. She stepped closer. And before he knew it, they were kissing.

He didn’t even know how to kiss. No one ever let him be close to him. Yet they were kissing, the rain drenching them and mixing into his tears.

So this was what love was like. 

The man sighed and stopped re-living the memories. He pulled at his hair and stood up, grabbing the flower from the tombstone and ripping it into pieces.

He had been foolish. He had known better. Even if someone loved him, they would be forced apart.

The man stopped and looked at the ruined flower. Just like his own messed-up life. He threw the flower on the ground and fell on his knees, crying out. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

He was crying, the first time he had cried since they had kissed.  Only this time, it wasn’t tears of joy–this was agony.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, kneeling on the tombstone and weeping. Perhaps it was only a few minutes, but it felt like hours. Every day felt longer without her.

Finally he stood up and walked back. His feet automatically went by her house. It was his own way of torturing himself, he guessed.

He felt the key in his pocket, just like he did every time he walked past the empty house. After a while, he summoned up his courage and went inside.

It was still the same. Old piano sitting in the corner of the living room. The tiniest kitchen he had ever seen. Her bedroom with pictures covering every inch of the walls. He sighed and walked into the back room, the one with the butterflies. He grabbed the cage and brought it outside, asking himself over and over why he was doing this.

He set it on the porch steps. His hands trembled as he opened the cage door. He swung it open.

The man sat back, a fresh set of tears dripping down his face, as the butterflies slowly flew out of the cage and into the sky. This time, the tears weren’t from anguish. Instead, they were releasing a new feeling of freedom.

The butterflies, by being in the cage, had melted his heart once. But now, by being freed, they were once again melting his heart, this time with the ability to move on.

The man looked down into the cage to see a small butterfly, dead, on the floor. He gingerly picked it up and walked back to the graveyard. Then he placed the dead butterfly on her tombstone. And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.

Beauty in the Everyday

There’s just something magical about beautiful days.

Yesterday I went on a long bike ride. The weather was perfect–sunny, cloudless, and a cool breeze. It was marvelous. Sometimes, when I look up in the sky and breathe in the perfect weather, I can’t help but feel something magical in the air. Maybe magical isn’t the right word. Perhaps it’s majestic, or fantastical. Something that shoots deep inside you that makes you shiver, even when you’re not cold, and makes you stop in awe and fascination.

I guess it makes me feel that way because I love beauty. We all do. Why else do we spend so much time making sure we look good? Why else do we always want the prettiest house, or picture, or eyes? We all love beauty, and looking at beautiful days makes us smile. It’s God’s way of showing us that he loves beauty too. I suppose that’s why we love beauty–we are made in his image.

Maybe your beautiful day isn’t the one we usually think of–sunny skies, warm temperature, peaceful atmosphere. Sometimes beautiful days are the ones when it’s pouring out, and the rain makes you refreshed and cool. Other times beauty comes in the form of cloudy days with slushy snow soaking through your shoes. Maybe lightning and thunder is your beautiful day, for you love seeing the awe-striking power.

Or maybe your beautiful day doesn’t have to do with weather. Perhaps it’s when things are rushed and your kids are running around and bumping into things and driving you nuts. It’s only when you stop for a moment and realize the blessing of your kids do you see the beauty in it. Or it’s when you’re sitting with your grandpa on the hospital bed as he struggles to breathe, and he keeps telling you that he loves you, and only then do you understand that beautiful days aren’t always happy. Maybe you’re sitting in the cafeteria and arguing with your friends about who’s turn it is to buy French fries, when you suddenly stop and start laughing at the stupidness of your fight. Then your mind starts re-living those memories of when you first met your friends in grade five, and how your closest friend hated math and you loved it, and the time when all of you confronted the kid who had pushed your friend, and all those days you spent at the park, skateboarding and joking around and daring your friends to say hi to the strange homeless man who talks to himself. And you sit there in the cafeteria and realize it’s a beautiful day, simply because you are with people you love.

So maybe today is your chance to stop and stare at the day. Stare it in the face. Study its features and expressions and determine if it’s a beautiful day. The great thing is that usually it is.

 

Courageous

     I’ve grown up memorizing John 3:16 and Jeremiah 29:11 and 1 Timothy 4:12…and those verses are great, but still, repetition can be boring. Recently I came across 2 Timothy 1:7, which says, “For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline.” I’m small for my age. I’m sort of shy. I prefer to stand in the corner and listen instead of speak up. Sometimes that’s good, but sometimes that’s not. I’m not very courageous. I don’t really like telling people about Jesus because then people would think I’m weird. I need courage to stand up for my faith. I need courage to love people I don’t like. 2 Timothy says that God hasn’t given us a spirit of fear…we don’t have to be afraid! We don’t have to be small! He’s given us love and self-discipline…and POWER. We have God’s power to change the world.