The Needs and The Wants

A year ago I was in Vegas handing out water bottles to prostitutes struggling to find shelter from the high sun in the shadow of concrete walls, the sidewalk burning the bottom of their bare feet, but they never seemed to noticed. The undervalued Princess slowly wastes away from no one stopping to notice the dignity she carries. The one bearing the image of the Divine Creator is deprived of her needs for she is now given worth by how she meets another's wants.

And a year later I am a waitress in Kansas, where a successful night is determined by the number left on the tip line or the bills left on the table. Where customers somehow have determined they have the privilege to dehumanize a server through words because there is too much ice in their water.

I am reading a book by Jefferson Bethke called It's Not What You Think. In the book he defines an idol as that which we acquire our satisfaction, worth and value from.

Many idols subtly enter our lives. We idolize ourselves for thirty minutes while we are out to eat: as we are being served somehow we find ourselves as the god who deserves the lowly server to meet our every want and desire, most of which are not vocalized but somehow expected to be known and met.

Then we leave the restaurant, upset when our wants were not met, and somehow find ourselves justified to bash the server and tell all our friends and family how terrible of a job they did. And when we see the server, who did not meet our wants, at Wal-mart or church or climbing into their car across the street, we remember the time they did not meet our wants, and the self-righteousness in us grows a little stronger.

And suddenly, we have determined their worth and value simply by how well they met our needs. We place ourselves a little higher up, and push them a little farther down. We bypass all of who they were created to be and define them by how they failed to fulfill our wants.

[[I have gone from serving the needs, to serving the wants.]]

{{and I wonder if I was the one speaking life or death}}

Here's the thing: my worth and value do not come from anything found on this Earth.

My worth and my value is not found in a number or in a customer's satisfaction or in a job title. My worth and my value is not something I set myself or I do to acquire more of or I do to take away from. My worth and my value is something I choose to accept and to walk in. My worth and my value were set in the days of old, when Abba started dreaming about the day I would finally walk the Earth. He set my worth and my value when He so tenderly formed me. His finger prints cover my body, no amount of scrubbing could ever remove them. My image is that of His, no amount of denying could ever change that. The air that first filled my lungs came directly from His, no amount of science could ever say otherwise.

Abba spoke life and passion into my soul. He calls me Child, Beloved, Accepted. He is madly in love with me. Even when I mix up food and drinks orders, He does not turn away in disgust; He is not ashamed or embarrassed when I fail to meet the standards and expectations of others. He shouts from Heaven, "BELOVED! KEEP GOING! I LOVE YOU AND I TAKE JOY IN YOU!"

There is this incredible capacity we humans carry with us: the capacity to allow Heaven to crash into Earth. Heaven crashes into Earth when we speak life and truth over each other. Heaven invades Earth when we reaffirm and empower others to walk in their original design. We were children sitting at the table long before we were lost runaways. Abba is waiting, He is pacing around the dining hall, waiting and longing for His child to return so He can embrace us and reseat us at the table.

The capacity I carry is to remind you of the seat chiseled out just for you at the table.

The capacity you carry is to remind me of the seat chiseled out just for me at the table.

So here's to the needs and the wants and all that is in between. All the empty places where worth and value are sought after, but never found. All the places we reflect the Maker of Light or the Father of Lies. All the places we are given the wild freedom of choice to acknowledge His presence, but somehow are never able to escape it.

Thailand: Check!

When Jesus sent out His 12 disciples commanding them to go to the lost sheep, I never thought He would send me out with 14 others representing a multitude of nations to the lost sheep of the Karen and Burmese people. (Matt. 10:6)

When Jesus sent His disciples out and told them to not be anxious when they are placed before man, for Holy Spirit would provide the words for them to say, I never thought He would say to me, "Do not fear what you will say when teaching monks English, for I will provide words for you." (Matt. 10:19,20)

Or when Jesus said to love the little children, He would take me on long bumpy tuck rides through to the jungle to do so. (Matt. 18:10)

Or when Jesus said where two or more are gathered so He too will be, I never thought it would meaning sharing a house with fourteen other crazy Jesus lovers to dance and sing before Him. (Matt. 18:20)

Or when Jesus sent His disciples out, filling them with all authority in Heaven and on Earth to make disciples of all nations, baptizing them and teaching them to observe all Jesus has commanded us, I never thought it would mean going into the villages of Thailand, dancing with the children, baptizing them with the spirit of joy, and teaching their parents of the Good News." (Matt. 28:18-20)

Or when Jesus said to love your neighbor as yourself, I never thought it would mean loving braiding little girl's hair as much as I love having my hair braided. (Matt. 22:39)

Or when Jesus said to feed the sick, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless and comfort those in distress, I never thought it would mean farming on a boy's half-way home to provide them with nutrient rich organic food, enabling them with energy and health to have income based jobs so they can have a home and clothing. (Matt. 25:35)

As YWAM Thailand has so eloquently rewritten:

If I speak with the tongue of a national, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or clanging cymbal. 
If I wear the national dress and understand the culture and all forms of etiquette, and if I copy all the mannerisms so that I could pass for a national, but have not love, I am nothing.
If I give all I possess to the poor, and if I spend my energy without reserve, but have not love, I am nothing.
Love endures long hours of language study, and is kind to those who mock his accent, love does not envy those who stayed at home, love does not exalt his home culture, is not proud of national superiority.
Love does not boast about the way we do it back home, does not seek his own ways, is not easily provoked into telling about the beauty of his home country, does not think evil of this culture.
Love bears all criticism about his home culture, believes all good things about this new culture, confidently anticipates being at home in this place, endures all inconveniences.
Love never fails, but where there is cultural anthropology, it will fail, where there is linguistics, it will change.
For we know only part of the culture and we minister to only part of the culture.
But when Christ is reproduced in this culture, then our inadequacies will be insignificant.
When I was in Holland* I spoke as a Dutchie* I understood as a Dutchie* I thought as a Dutchie*, but when I left Holland*, I put away Dutch* things.
Now we adapt to this culture awkwardly, but He will live in it intimately, now I speak with a strange accent, but He will speak to the heart.
And now these three remain; cultural adaptation, language study and love, but the greatest of these is love. 
* fill in your own nationality

But this is only part of my story. In C.S Lewi's book, The Boy and His Horse, Aslan says "Child, I am telling you your story, not hers. No one is told any story but their own." This is only part of my story. The wild ride began long ago and has yet to end. My story is not your story, my wild ride is not your wild ride. And that is part of the adventure: seeing and hearing and running with others who are passionately and deeply in enthralled with the wildness of our crazy loving Abba.

The Human Nature

We have moved locations from Chiang Mai to a town on the board of Myanmar to a town called Mae Sot. Our house is basic. Our beds require mosquitoes nets, the walls bear signs of water damage and mold, our toilets, though they be western, require us to dump water in them and the stove top burners house many spiders and ants. Oh, the ants! Everywhere! The room I am staying in has a dim light bulb you plug into the wall socket (unlike 1.6 billion people in the world who have no electricity) and the door stays shut with a piece of yarn and rubber band contraption.

Our last location was a nice house. Basic kitchen and a typical Asian shower, meaning the wall facet drains across the entire floor into a drain or hole in the wall. But there our toilets were western flushing. I shared a king bed with our own bathroom. Luxurious for over 80% of the world's population.

Our ministries have varied from farming for a half-way house, to teaching in boys juvenile prison, to teaching monks English, to praying for people in government hospitals, to building playgrounds and playing with children. Our meals have mostly consisted of random roadside food stands with the most killer pad Thai I have ever had! Evangelism has been difficult as to us having zero Thai, however when we meet someone who does not speak any English we have Thai tracts and Bibles to give them.

Here in Mae Sot the Pastor will simply say, "Okay, perform." Meaning skit song, or testimony. We have joined with a YWAM team from Wisconsin who warned us, yet we were still unprepared.

My human nature took the best of me with the untold of expectations. We were expected to have songs and skits at the ready, something our team did not. We were expected to have Bible lessons and testimonies at the ready, something our team, when unexpectedly asked, was not prepared with.

I was upset when I was asked to tell a story about God working in my life. I was upset at the opportunity to share a Bible story. I was upset when given a soap box from which I could proclaim the greatest love story ever written.

Insert the human nature of self entitlement.

I suppose I could list off many verses or quotes about Jesus never promising safety, comfortable, blah blah blah. Much less life. Life never promised me any of this.

Life never guaranteed when my dad removed my bike's training wheels and let go of me I would remain upright, never acquiring scared knees. Life never promised me a great K-12 education, brains ready to soak up deep philosophical discussions or the natural motivation to study my buns off. Life never promised me a a 9-5 job void of tedious resume writings and worrisome interviews. Life never promised me airplane rides with abundance of leg room, delicious food and stench free seat neighbors (or me always being the stench neighbor).

My human nature of self entitlement whispers the lie I need to know so I can prepare. I need to prepare a five point, theologically sound, with a few well known Christian quotes thrown in here and there, sermon to be presentable. I need to be prepared to harmonize in song and be a flawless actresses in skits. I need to prepare to eliminate all possibilities of blunders or embarrassments.

My human nature of self entitlement goes back to the idea of being comfortable so I may achieve some untold of standard of acceptable, so I can pass some ludicrous idea of what it is conqueror some moment with great brilliance.

Somewhere, in my self entitlement, in my planning, the wild spontaneity of God is removed. The mystery of the Gospel is no longer needed for the infinite questions are somehow concluded with finite answers. The excitement of new food and risk of diarrhea is rejected in finding the clean mundane western restaurant. The joy of being loved is taken away in being weary of head lice, scabies and unwashed bodies. The crazy love He has for me, the wild adventures He has planned for me, or the beauty of His widespread creation would never be known if I stayed within the small confines of my human nature.

Our worst and greatest team selfie yet.

A Father's Love

My identity as Abba's child is not an abstraction or a tap dance into religiosity. It is the core truth of my existence. Living in the wisdom of accepted tenderness profoundly affects my perception of reality, the way I respond to people and their life situations. How I treat my brothers and sisters from day to day, whether they be Caucasian, African, Asian, or Hispanic; how I react to the sin- scarred wino on the street; how I respond to interruptions from people I dislike; how I deal with ordinary people in their ordinary unbelief on an ordinary day will speak the truth of whom I am more poignantly than the pro-life sticker on the bumper of my car. We are not for life simply because we are warding off death. We are sons and daughters of the Most High and maturing in tenderness to the extent that we are for others - all others - to the extent that no human flesh is strange to us, to the extent that we can touch the hand of another in love, to the extent that for us there are no "others'.

- Brennan Manning

My dad is the dad who answers the phone at Thanksgiving with: "Gooble gooble gooble! What's your favorite Thanksgiving food?" And at Christmas: "Ho ho ho! What's your favorite Christmas song?" He answers the phone in such a way regardless of who is calling. He is also the one who taught me to fix toilets, eat doughnuts and read the newspaper, listen to Paul Harvey while eating cup-o-noodles, and take me on drives to look at the Christmas lights. I guess you could say I was always my daddy's little girl.

We've had a good share of arguments, harsh words and disrespect towards each other. There have been long periods of time I have had zero desire to have a relationship with him, even times I have avoided him.

Being apart has helped me process and see more of how my parents have shaped who I have become, both negative and positive. As I have struggled through the process of forgiving him for past offenses, I have grown to appreciate and love him more. Like this past fall while remodeling the new YWAM building in Homer and the light fixtures needed installing, I knew how because he taught me. I realized how much my daddy has impacted me.

Tonight I leave on a bus for Chicago and tomorrow board a plane for Tokyo. I will not be here on Christmas day, so my parents and I celebrated Christmas early with a few presents.

I picked up a small square parcel. My mom said, "Your dad picked that one out." My response: "It'll be real good then!" I was expecting something ridiculous, like a redneck Christmas ornament or something with a horrible pun on it.

It was a necklace saying "love you to the moon and back". I thought my dad was going to cry; he couldn't make eye contact while I opened the box.

Growing up, every night my daddy tucked me into bed and we had this thing we would always say to each other, and it ended with: "Love you to the moon and back; sweet dreams, don't let the bed bugs bight." When I leave on long trips we still say it to each other before I board the plane.

It was a human glimpse of the Abba's love. My earthly daddy about cried thinking of the times we've exchanged intimate love. Our relationship is far from perfect, there are still many unhealthy aspect of it, but we are working on it.

As I grown into deeper realization of who I am in Abba Papa's eyes, as I continue to grow into the woman the Creator designed us to be, I begin to learn more of who He created others to be. In seeing who I am, I see who others are. As Papa speaks to me with respect and honor, reminding me of my worth and value, I learn more of the respect and honor my daddy deserves, how worthy and valuable he is. I understand more what it is to receive grace and forgiveness, knowing what it feels like to walk in this freedom. The deeper this understanding, the deeper the desire becomes to empower others the same.

We cannot accept love from another human being when we do not love ourselves, much less accept that God could possibly love us.

-Brennan Manning

Kansas Rest

A few days this past week were spent in Kansas. I came to Iowa seeking rest before joining the outreach team in Japan on December 26. In going to Kansas, the sole intent was rest. And I walked away, rather drove, with a greater understanding of a culture of honor.

I stayed in a house with four young men. It was an old house, as in carpeted bathrooms and wallpaper in the showers old. There were odd paintings adorning the walls, outdated wall trim and dishes in the sink. There was clothes and underwear in the bathroom, by the couch, on the table, on the stairs, by the door... The carpets were vacuumed, blankets folded on the couches and piles of ranked leaves in the front yard. The house had a realness about it, a lived in loved feeling.

Each of the young men willingly offered their rooms for me to sleep in, rearranging themselves about the house to respect my privacy. Attentive and caring. Asking how I slept and if I was hungry. They knew the love of Abba, an everyday kind of love, and walked out the same everyday kind of love.

Tuesday evening their living room filled with other Jesus lovers, a community established around the presence of God, seeking to know Abba's heart and be vessels of the Father's love. A hunger for more, not settling for what they were taught or had experienced, but a desire to taste and see more of the goodness of God. In the atmosphere of safety and trust, there was an ability to share heavy burdens or what Abba joyously was teaching us. 

Revelations 5:8,9 speaks of the prayers of the saints being bowls of incense, and the saints were singing a new song, a song found in spending time before the Throne. The house was soaked in such incense. Confessions were made, prayers for more freedom were said, and not a single prayer returned void. Where the Presence of the Lord is there is Freedom, and Freedom dwelt in the house.

In Danny Silk's book Culture of Honor, he writes, "Each believers comes to understand his or her significance in relationship to the whole Body, and the conviction begins to take hold: "I carry something that no one else carries. I must develop and release my gifts into the Church and the world and do my part in bringing Heaven to earth." Honor empowers people."

I was awoken early Friday morning by their dog. She jumped onto the bed, nudged me awake, curled up next to me and tried to share the pillow. A less than ideal situation for a person who is slowly coming around to the idea of dogs potentially being okay animals. I woke up in a room of peace. To awake in an unfamiliar place, knowing I was safe, is to know His presence is welcomed in the room.

Powerful people, empowering others to be powerful, by allowing them to be weak and real. In a house dedicated to walking in His everyday kind of love, they carry a love that will not leave others to walk alone. Their love takes others in and lifts them up. In finding rest, I found imitators of the Father's love.

As the children stepped out of the wardrobe in The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, the Professor greeted them, not shushing them or declaring their tales as silly. Rather he says, "Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia. But don't go trying to use the same route twice. Indeed, don't try to get there at all. It'll happen when you're not looking for it. And don't talk too much about it even among yourselves. And don't mention it to anyone else unless you find that they've had adventures of the same sort themselves. What's that? How will you know? Oh, you'll know all right. Odd things they say - even their looks - will let the secret out. Keep your eyes open."

The culture of honor is such as the culture of Narnia. Once a King or Queen, always a King and Queen. Our identity is seen for what it is, not defined by our short comings and mishaps. And those bringing the Kingdom, they are different. They speak differently, act and look different. The words give weight and impact, their eyes search for truth and their actions carry love and value.

The invitation to intimacy with the Father, is an invitation to walk in and live out the culture of honor.

"Aslan is on the move. The Witch's magic is weakening." Sons and daughters, called by their true names, are being seen for the Beloveds they are. Their true dreams and destinies are being pulled out of them as a culture of honor so does. And the children are being brought back to the Table, filling the seats they were designed to fill.

American Villages

The word 'village' excites me. Sounds foreign, adventurous, rural, new, culture, third world. Somewhere far away. to think America has villages is bizarre for me. This past weekend I had an opportunity to join Carry The Cure and Broken Walls ministry and go to two Alaskan native villages. Here's a small peak into the weekend.

I was very concerned when I arrived at the air hanger to find no no one in the office or waiting room, I was expecting to find team there, none of whom I knew. Turns out I had my own personal flight from Soldotna to Palmer where we would collect the rest of the team.

Hooper Bay from the airplane. Not a single tree or bush. Many of the people still live sustainable lives; moose and seal hunting, berry picking, collecting greens. Half the village does not have running water in their homes. In these homes they have steam baths instead of showers, doesn't sound to bad to me! The nearest hospital and health clinic is a 45 minute flight away. No roads reach Hooper. The village is secluded from many outside influences, but the outside is also secluded from Hooper's influence. The village is rich in culture, value and honor. 

The Hooper Bay airport. As in a shed and a landing strip. Yes, in the distance there is an igloo, but not a real ice one.

The school has around 500 students k-12. All building are built on stilts because of permafrost and flooding. A high school teacher told me one day they had to let the students out early because a flood was coming and the little kids could be swept away in the waters, but the teachers had to continue working. She said it was bizarre to feel the entire school shaking and to know you are surrounded by water.

In Iowa they joke about riding our tractors to school. I only saw five different trucks here, otherwise people only drive their four wheeler and snow machines. While they do not drive dogsleds, Carol from our team told stories of racing dog sleds with her mom and Jonathan told us how his dad would drive dog sleds into different villages in Canada to share the Gospel. 

When they only have four wheelers and snow machines, this speed limit isn't to bad I suppose.

View from my high school window: corn fields and houses. I told one lady who had never been to the lower 48, what they see out their window is what Kansas looks like in the winter. This lady didn't get the Kansas Iowa rivalry...

The Yup'ik language is still spoken in Hooper and other surrounding villages. Many signs in the school are first written in English, then in Yup'ik. I walked past a couple classrooms and the teachers were teaching in Yup'ik. Several of the students I spoke with could understand Yup'ik, but not speak it.

We were in America, but we really were not in America. As the lovely Maya Angelou says, "It is time for parents to teach young people early on that in diversity there is beauty and there is strength."

There was a wrestling tournament in the gym adding many more students to the already large school. Other villages flew their students in; these students were sleeping on classroom floors like us. 

In committing to life, we are committing to all of life, the lovely and the unlovely. We commit to believing in passion and purpose even when we feel unqualified and useless. We commit to dreaming and walking through life, even when our vision becomes blurry and our foot steps are shaky. We commit to being there for each other, believing in the life, passions, purposes, and dreams of others. We commit to seeking out the life in others, knowing they contain deep beauty too. We commit to life. Ours. Others. All of it.

I was able to spend time in the home economics room. They had a few of my favorite things: high schoolers, kitchen and food. Their teacher, Eric, caught my attention the first night we were there. He had students cooking till 7 p.m. I ended up talked with him for over an hour. He shared his story and heart behind why he does what he does. He had to cut the conversation though because he had a student coming to his apartment to make cookies. With the 4 suicides in October, Eric said his job became even more important. He was able to offer a table, a home like setting, for students to come, talk, laugh and get away. Eric said the students are tired of talking about suicide, they just want life. The student in this picture, Joyce, is a senior. When she is done with school she will be taking care of her grandma. She has no dreams or passions for the future. In the village she knows what her role will is. Eric is teaching her new ways to cook old food. He recognizes most of the students will never leave. He is realistically equipping them to live and honor the culture they are born into.

Jassenda. She quickly attached herself to me, not leave my side. She helped me collect pots to use as drums during the assembly, introduced me to different teachers and friends, and helped make sure no students touched the computer and computer stand during the assembly. She was constantly touching me, whether it was holding my hand, sitting with our legs touching or wrapping my arms around her. She braided my hair during the evening concert; her legs were covered with my hair she pulled so tight! 11:30 p.m after the concert, she walked home by herself. She desired to be loved.

I was talking with this elder before we had a meeting with the tribal elders in Hooper. Her parka has four different furs, is seal skinned lined, and her mom made the kuspak outer layer. Her daughter, who is actually her granddaughter she adopted, is wearing a parka the elder's mother made 40 years ago out of several different furs. Both parkas have been worn by past relatives. The parkas contain a rich layer of history and culture bringing glory and honor to the Yup'ik ways of life.

She kept saying, "Look at the funny face I can make!"

Our wonderful team!

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime." -Mark Twain

The first night in Bethel, while the band was practicing, Carol and I made crepes. Carol placed a towel on her arm, loaded a platter and served the crepes (later with ice-cream and drizzled in chocolate). She joyfully, lovingly and with much fun served!

Holy Spirit showed up. My words cannot begin to touch the surface of what happened. Many men and women expressed how they  grew up being told Native drums and dancing were evil. These men and women were dancing by the end of the night. There was physical healing of stomachs, chests and kidneys. Sons and daughters had their identity reaffirmed, stepping into the roles they were designed to walk in. Freedom. Freedom is never withheld from us.

And naturally I found myself a baby to love. I connected first with his grandma, Alice, during morning service. Alice buried her son a week ago, now carrying a heavy burden. She said she was at the store and felt guilty for buying herself something. She felt guilty dancing in church because her son just died. She felt guilty thinking she could be joyful and mourn at the same time. In the evening service I saw him and Alice in the nursery. I told Alice I would hold him while she worships and listens. He ended up falling asleep. Turns out this little guy is the son of Alice's son who died, there is no mom. Alice experienced freedom. She was able to dance and smile and laugh and was healed of stomach and chest pain. This little guy was held and loved for a couple hours. And my heart was full!


Carol and I in native regalia. Carol was patient and gracious, correcting me many times when I made cultural blunders. In the villages, the elders tended to talk to her, often coming across cold to me because I was white. Carol explained, often giving her own personal testimonies, of why. There is a deep hurt within the Native community of white man coming in and disrupting culture (this does not excuse or overlook the offenses from Natives on white man). There are many things I did not understand culturally, such as allowing an Indian to speak, a four second pause does not mean they completed a thought. Many villages still follow traditional styles of living, community structure, and traditions. Carol was safe, I was able to make mistakes in front of her, experiencing gracious correction instead of criticism. It was much like international outreach. 

The band Broken Walls. Praising the Creator with native drums, sounds and rhythms. Incredible ministry, message and heart.

The plane, in five days, took off 7 times.

Five days. Lack of sleep. Inconsistent meal times. Over 100 salvation. Freezing temperatures. Crazy testimonies of Holy Spirit showing up, Abba loving as He always does, and the work of Jesus being realized in personal ways. This is the life of a missionary. Not always glamorous, fun, easy or enjoyable. The road on which we take may be full of potholes, for some missionaries literally.  We commit to going down the roads, through the sky and across the waters despite bumps, turbulence or waves. We commit to valuing the one in front of us. We may sleep on king size beds, classroom floors, bamboo mats or in hammocks. We may be eating five course meals, cafeteria food, or dirty rice. But the message we carry is one of hope. A dangerous message, a message of life. A message we commit to carrying no matter the price.

America. The brave. The beautiful. The culturally diverse.

http://carrythecure.org/

http://brokenwalls.com/